If Noah had any awareness of exactly how new I was to this whole kissing thing, he didn’t show it. Perhaps this, too, resulted from the metaphysical energy at play: regardless of my technical skill or lack thereof, there is no match for the inspiration shared by the muse’s touch. Anyway, if sex is an art and artistic skill is something that comes naturally to me... well, you see where this is going.
I ran my hands up his sides and to his upper back, using the leverage of his shoulder blades to pull myself properly onto his lap. Once there, I moved my hands down to grasp at the bottom of his shirt, pulling it upwards. It caught on his neck, and he assisted me, taking his hands from the small of my back for a moment that felt entirely too long. I dug my hips downward to stabilize, and his hard cock pressed against my cunt through the layers of his clothing and mine. I moaned as his shirt finally came free and he flung it across the room, then returned my hands to his chest.
I had thought the dude was a heart throb from the moment I first laid eyes on him. He had a handsome smile and his eyes twinkled with mischief. But, damn, the sight of his lithe muscles did something else entirely to me. As my hands ran down them, more silver sparks from my fingertips hit his abs. Electric. My mouth hung open as I looked at him, but only briefly before his own hands grasped my back and pulled me back into him, pulled me so that my lips crashed against his once again, and there was nothing else in the world in that instant but me, him, his body, and mine.
His hands trailed up my back, searching for the opening to my blue jumpsuit. It was pretty, sure, but I hadn’t chosen the outfit for the evening on the assumption I’d end up back at his place, so I was equal parts amused and frustrated when it took him awhile to find the zipper. He did, finally, and pulled it down to expose my back. His fingers moved across me to unclasp my bra. I pulled back for a second to let him slide both off of my arms. A slight breeze pebbled my chest, but he barely glanced at it before his lips trailed down my breasts. They grazed my nipples, his teeth gentle as he took each in his mouth, one and then the other, making them hard. His hands remained on my lower back, letting me arch in ecstasy in a way that pressed my hips more firmly into his crotch, and he let out a soft moan that echoed mine as I did so.
He trailed his mouth back up my breasts and neck to take my earlobes in my mouth, to tease me with his breath on my skin. “Do you want me?” he whispered, a question that took too long for my horny mind to comprehend. I didn’t respond right away, or at least not fast enough for him, so he repeated it, this time drawing out the words so that his breath danced against my ears: “Do. You. Want. Me?”
“Yes,” I said, but it came out broken from my breathlessness.
He chuckled softly against me, pulling me into him as he stood, though I circled my legs around him to hold on just in case. He carried me toward the bedroom, pausing when there was a convenient wall to hold me against for long, passionate kisses that gave me a preview of what he had in mind.
And... I just...
Sigh.
If it was hard for me to explain exactly what it’s like to make out with an artist as a muse, it’s entirely impossible for me to convey the sort of passionate emotion that transpired as we fell further down the rabbit hole.
But I’ll do my best. There’s a reason you’re reading my confessions, and I’m sure you’re here for all the juicy bits, not just the ones where I tell you all the terrible things I did, right?
He carried me into his bedroom, and it was glorious. There was nothing but me and himon an enormous bed in a room that smelled like sage and just a hint—just the tiniest hint—of patchouli.
His weight came off of me and I whimpered, but his hands grazed up my arms so our connection was not lost, not for a single moment. He moved them up my shoulders and then down my chest, lingering just a moment on my aureoles, then down my stomach before hitting the fabric of my half-off jumpsuit.
I wanted him. Badly. I felt the need coil in my core and shamelessly lifted my hips off the bed and towards his hands in response to my need. He pulled the rest of my clothing off of me, my outfit and my underwear in one fell swoop, then tossed them out of sight.
I felt real in that moment. Real, and honest; my name didn’t matter, nor did it matter that who I said I was and who I actually was and who I was becoming were not and could never be the same. I was no one in particular and everyone that mattered to Noah.
Noah vanished from me; his hands were gone, the warmth of his body disappearing and leaving my body cold and longing. I moaned again, a call for his return, and opened my eyes when I heard a belt unbuckling.
He was unbuttoning his slacks when I looked up at him with half-opened eyes, revealing boxers that did nothing to hide his generous girth.
Damn.
I want to tell you, dear reader, that when I saw what Noah was packing—or unpacking as the case may have been—I was filled with pure lust. Excitement. But, remember, while I was settling quickly into my role as a temptress, at this point I had never had sex. Or, rather, I could not recall ever having had sex, so as far as I knew I hadn’t. I was filled with lust, that much is true, but I was also filled with an intense sense of trepidation. For a split second I considered calling quits on the whole thing, or at least asking for a rain check. Not that I didn’t want him, far from it... but perhaps I would have been better off with a starter penis. Something to get me used to the act of sex without stretching my as-far-as-I-was-concerned new vagina to its limits.
But, no.
I’m not a quitter.
Also, let’s be honest, I was horny, and my trepidation aside, I wanted Noah inside of me.
I watched him pull his boxers down, slowly, noting the deep V the muscles on his lower abdomen created like lines directing my attention downward. He pulled them inch by inch, his cock tenting the fabric as he did so and popping out proudly when he had finally passed his head. I felt my mouth fall open but didn’t really register it as I stared at the thing, then forced my eyes upward. I expected him to have his near-signature side smile when I reached his face, but his expression was nothing but pure heat, my own lust returned in staring eyes that sparkled with... inspiration.
His boxers fell to the floor, and in a split second he was on top of me. He was gentle but passionate, holding himself above me and kissing me deeply, the tip of his cock teasing my opening. I kissed him back, feeling the silvery sparks pass from me to him and shimmer down his body where his lips met mine. I wished—and still often do—that he could have had some knowledge of what my experience was, not as a woman but as a muse, but I trusted that what he could not see he could at least feel. Meanwhile, I felt my pussy become wet with his touch and his cock pressed against me with a gentle firmness.
He pulled his head away from mine, supporting himself on his hands to rise to his knees, and thrust against me. I moaned as the tip finally entered, opening me so wide I thought I’d break, then went just a little deeper before pulling out.
I whimpered. I honest to god whimpered.
He slid himself off the bed, moving around to his nightstand. I could not see precisely what he pulled from it, but I had my guesses, and they were confirmed when I heard a condom wrapper opening. He turned back to me, his cock nearer my head now to give me an unencumbered view as he slid the rubber along his shaft.
And honestly, all I could say was “damn.”
I met his eyes, and there it was, his side smile as he finished. He crawled back onto the bed, one knee and then the other, then moved each over my leg so he was positioned in front of me once more.
“Do you want me?” he asked again.
I swallowed. “Yes,” I started, and he adjusted himself to line his cock up with me, “but...”
He stopped. He backed off entirely, not off the bed, but far enough away from me that he was no longer touching me, not with his hands, and definitely not with the tip of his cock. “But what?” he asked, and it was gentle, and there was nothing in his eyes to suggest even the barest hint of frustration, le
t alone anger or blame.
“I...” I wanted to maintain the air of being elegant and beautiful and down for anything, and I believed I was, damn it, but I was also... embarrassed. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell him I was basically a virgin, nor did I want to admit to anything even partially resembling fear, but I had to find some way to communicate to him that this was a new experience for me. I didn’t want to lie, not here, not like this, and I didn’t want to withhold what I was feeling, so I said something that was technically the truth and also stroked his ego just enough.
But first, I hid my face behind the pillow and giggled like the embarrassed virgin I was.
This, at least, got him to drop some of his seriousness, but none of his curiosity. “But what, Selene?” he said. But he was laughing now and trying to pull the pillow off of my face and this was loads better than a few moments before when he thought that maybe I was about to drop some deep secret.
Which I was, but I didn’t want him to know that, either.
I pulled the pillow off of my face, losing myself in giggles again when I saw his expression. He hit me with the pillow a few times before finally holding himself over me again, carefully keeping his cock a safe distance from my extremely receptive vagina.
“But what?” he repeated.
I inhaled deeply. “But I’ve never had a cock as large as yours inside me,” I said, “so I need you to go slowly.”
He laughed, his voice a vibrant sound that broke through the air almost like music, before pressing himself back on top of me. It was nothing, and then he was everything, his body and heat and scent surrounding me. The tip of his cock pressed into me once more and he adjusted himself to line it up against my crotch, but he didn’t press in, not until I couldn’t take the teasing any longer and arched my back and took it into my cunt my own damn self.
His breath caught as I took him in, then he exhaled, his beautiful chest moving as he sighed through the movement. He slid in further, slowly, bending over me to give me gentle kisses on my neck and ear as he thrust.
I let out a breathy sigh, surrendering to him, opening my legs wider as if to will his entrance. It was too slow and too fast, too overwhelming, all at once; I wanted him more and sooner than my body would allow. I squirmed under him, the action causing my clit to rub against his shaft and to ignite even more desire. I pressed upward, willing him to go faster, but he traced my body down to my hips with one muscular arm and held me in place.
It was entirely aggravating and entirely hot. I moaned again, trying to relax despite my intense, building desire, and focused on the sensation of him sliding himself into me.
It seemed like it took approximately a million years, but he finally bottomed out, the base of his shaft where it met his pelvis pressing up against my vulva. He pushed in, firmly, shutting his eyes and letting his own mouth fall ajar before looking back at me and sliding back out.
Everything was magic. And I don’t say that lightly. How can I? My entire existence is a magic, if we want to get technical. I’m a muse, for goodness’ sake. Also, I deal exclusively in magic, as you likely know art is if you’ve ever read a book, or watched a movie, or listened to a song that dramatically changed the mood of everyone at a party.
So I tell you, in earnest, this was magic.
I don’t deceive myself into believing that while his cock was inside of me, Noah was rationally thinking through the scenes in the marked-up play that still sat on his coffee table in the next room. He was focused on the... task at hand, we’ll call it.
What I can tell you is that even in my state of distraction, with my eyelids half open or entirely shut, through my moans and his, I watched countless silver sparkles flow from my body to his. They moved wherever he touched me or I him, like an explosion, like a neon light that sputtered into existence. To nearly anyone else he may have been blinding, too bright to look at lest he form permanent spots in their vision from daring to look at his magnificence.
Me? To me, he was beautiful.
My cunt became more slick as he thrust, and he sped up until I was lost from rational thought. All I could feel were his hands and his cock and his mouth, his body in all its magnificent silvery splendor. The more he thrust in and out of me, the more I wanted him, and he became faster, as if answering my call. It shifted, at some point, from him taking care of me to him focusing entirely on his own satisfaction, and that in itself excited me. Perverted in its own ways, perhaps, but to me, a strange sort of pure: I was here for one purpose, and one alone, and it was to service creatives.
Whether this is precisely what the gods had in mind when they created muses, I couldn’t say, but the “spreading inspiration by touch” thing definitely makes me suspicious.
He moaned in ecstasy as he brought himself to climax. His final thrusts pushed me over the edge and I came over his shaft as he pressed it inside of me, hard, so deeply I thought I may not have been able to handle it, and when I opened my eyes, all I saw was lust, satisfaction, and brilliance shining back down at me.
Chapter 6
I stayed the night.
It felt like a waste given that I was still shelling out hundreds of dollars a night I did not have for a hotel, but it was a small sacrifice for the good of the cause of getting Noah to maintain as much of his inspiration and to... solidify it.
That’s the thing with inspiration. It’s a fickle beast. There’s probably a textbook for new muses somewhere in the aether that goes into depth on its properties and how to best create and maintain it. Perhaps that would be clearer on whether we’re supposed to be fucking the artists we come across or whether it just so happens to be an effective way of sparking creativity, but, well, I doubt you’re reading my confessional to read my thoughts on the metaphysical realities of musedom, or whatever.
Though maybe there’s another book there.
Anyway.
My expectation was that I would wake up wrapped in Noah’s arms, him propelled toward me and my inspiration-giving powers even as he slept. What happened instead was that I woke up in his bed alone, cold, the blankets on his side having been tossed off in a hurry. It was, at first, just the slightest bit damaging to my ego: I wanted to continue believing I was magnetic, that any artist as serious about their craft as Noah would do everything they could to cling to me and to absorb my presence, even if all that meant was sleeping in longer and touching me as we both slumbered.
I was foolish to jump to any such conclusions about his devotion to The Cause or lack thereof. As I came to my senses and convinced myself to stop being so selfish, I considered my surroundings, since I hadn’t exactly been looking at the room last night. Bookshelves everywhere, and more books strewn about, everything from classic literature to modern plays; a mandolin and an assortment of other exotic instruments lined up along one wall; most clothing in the hamper or put away neatly, except for what we’d been wearing yesterday, which had never made it off the floor following our night of passion.
And his color palette: earthy oranges, browns, and greens, with other accents like forests and deserts. The scents: patchouli, coffee, sage, dry linen. These are the kinds of details you notice as a muse.
I inhaled. Coffee. At this point I was going on maybe a week in existence, so it’s not like I personally had a caffeine addiction, but it didn’t take the observational skills of a full-fledged muse to understand the cultural role it played in New York City. And the smell of it this morning was not the older smell one expects of a place that had coffee not too long ago, or of a place that regularly had coffee, but the distinct notes of a fresh pot being brewed, and its presence juxtaposed with Noah’s absence was likely to mean only one thing.
I stretched, my joints cracking as I momentarily took up the entire bed, then got up and fished my underwear out from where they’d fallen on the floor. I would have to be more prepared for my next overnight, I realized, shrugging it off and putting them on and then my blue jumpsuit. I used an ornamental mirror to help me smooth out my hair, then gargled
some mouthwash I found in the attached bathroom as a way of freshening up. It’d have to do for now.
My breath caught in my throat as I finished up, then prepared to face Noah in the other room.
I wasn’t prepared for what I walked in on. And I mean that in a good way. He was glowing, a star in human form as he darted around his living room, leaving papers strewn about in his wake. The papers themselves sparkled, too, lines connecting pages like errant spiderwebs through the air.
He didn’t notice me at first. They usually don’t, it was turning out, partially because I’m quiet when I come across an artist at work, but also because it’s hard to notice anything when something like inspiration has your attention.
No, instead he darted around, returning to the same notebook to write something down every once in a while. There was something like a click, a surge that made him shine even more brightly for a few minutes, and after he feverishly recorded whatever it was the insight had given him, he set it down, inhaled deeply, took in the sight of his work in progress, and smiled.
Then he noticed me. Then, after all of that.
“Selene!” he said, “I got it back!”
“I see that,” I said, my own smile creeping up my face at his enthusiasm. “I’m glad you had a good morning.”
“YES! Yes, I did. Oh! Would you like some coffee? I made some. There’s creamer in the fridge.”
I didn’t know if I wanted coffee. That was a strange feeling, and I’m not sure how relatable it is to you if you’re someone with a coffee addiction, but I had never had the stuff. I didn’t even know if I liked it. But I assumed I did, and I figured that even if I ultimately didn’t care for it, the Noah’s enthusiasm was likely to deflate if I refused his offer of it.
Confessions of a Muse Page 5
