Crimson Crossing – Stories in Erotica

A Muse Story

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I can still hear the sweet melody of my mother’s voice. It was the first day of sculpting seminar. She held my face by the cheeks with both her hands for a while as if alluding to the pride she felt. With a tender smile she closed and opened her eyes then said: “Son, always remember that all artistic expression is crafted through inspiration and, it will be someone or something unique to you. Only upon finding it will you be able to craft and shape clay through the hands of art itself.” Ok, mom, was my response. I nudged my face free of her hands, and walked towards the entrance of the hall. She watched me go into the hall with a big smile as if proud to be sending me out in conquest of success. I waved goodbye, she waved in return. I smiled and screamed back that I wouldn’t stop until finding my inspiration. “I know son, I know you won’t”, said she.

Years after completing Graduate Sculpture Program, my inspiration remained unmoved. I was haunted by works that found life in those who didn’t, and don’t understand art. I hated each piece I created as much as I despised the inability to conquer the world my mother sent me out to master. I now know that there can’t exist artistic vision, more importantly, expression without inspiration. I had come up empty in my search for that something that draws from the depths of vision… art.

The story of how I came upon that something my mother mentioned is one to be written about. It was precisely conceived for finger taps on inscribed-with-each-letter-of-the-alphabet plastic squares to digitally store the event for millennia to rejoice… for it to be remembered as are those mythological personalities which academia still dissects.

It was revealed through a dream. I was forced awake early in the morning by mental images that inspired all possibility in me. I uncovered from the blanket, looked down, jumped inside my jeans — shoes I didn’t wear — grabbed the toothbrush then rushed out in direction to the coffee house on Buccanno Bean Street. I arrived at the shop barefooted and in despair, searching around for the person I had seen in my dream. Within moments of entering the room I found her. She looked as inspiring as she did last night while I slept.

The struggle was knowing how to proceed. My mother had not explained what sort of interactions were to be had with what I have come to know as, my muse. How could mom have forgotten such a vital piece of information? This is the type of knowledge that is passed down, not like the type that must be experienced. These are the times when I wish to have been more inquisitive as a child, instead of taking things as they came. I did with out much questioning.

Mom, I would have asked: “What sort of relationship should I expect to have with the muse? A ‘read-only’ relationship where interactions are limited to admiring her until being infused with art? Am I to touch every part of her to bring about that spark of creativity through some form of osmosis? Tell me mom, tell your child what I won’t find as a grown man.”

I plotted whatever I could mustard. I was to ease into the situation. I’d frequent the shop on a daily basis, order the legendary Café-Bean latte, situate myself where she would easily see me, and eventually break the news that I longed for her presence for as far back as I can remember. That was the plan, a good one I though. Being near my muse, how could it not possibly work. What better day to start than the very first after learning who would eternally inspire me. I looked down at my toes, wiggled them, looked forward and walked up to the end of the line. A slight lean to my right, counted the number of people in front of me, and returned to my spot. Again I leaned, this time to the left, looked around to see if she had noticed me. I wondered if we felt each others presence. This thing, this relationship can’t conceivably be one sided.

A few minutes “tic-toc” away, my heart palpitates up to my throat. There is no one else barricading me from her; the wait is at its end. While I gather the courage to place my order, she greets me hello. Time didn’t stop still as it does in the movies when emotions corral reason. It simply slowed down where the shape of her lips enunciating “hello” replayed the events I had witnessed her undertake in my sleep. I felt masters and their pieces rush through me exciting the very ground I stood upon. Had I not been elated by the very memories of the night before tears would have escaped the corners of my eyes.

The prolonged duration of that one… maybe two seconds that it took for her to say “Hello”, made me relive the dream that brought me here. The setting was in my design studio; her face was soiled with clay as was my torso. An unfinished piece with her initials carved in it was visible from where I laid. The clay on us had obviously come from the piece.

By the time became aware of what was happening she was climbing off of me. I was laying atop a mat spread on the floor. The windows were opened allowing falling leaves to be carried in by the breeze of an autumn-midday. Every so often the gusts of winds shoved uncountable numbers of leaves across the room… those small enough to be trapped by the most-of-miniscule-obstacles became entangled in her long hair. I’d run my hands through it to clear it from the debris. Her pleasantly-supple breasts reacted to the cool breeze by contracting erector muscles; visibly pulling on hair follicles giving the breasts that sensual look of an exposed sensually searching for soothing.

Her rear did not look as affected by the cool breeze, at least not noticeably. The dream didn’t afford further details of her bottom, not even a glimpse of my longing appeasing her. It limited me to an image of her recently-manicured-persona, slightly opened, alluding to have been battered for quite some time prior to dismounting me. I also looked to have been caught in a struggle. A long and hard struggle. The type that leaves a man feeling the beat of the heart down at the male anatomy, visibly pulsating along as if a dying soldier gasping for last breaths.

She turned around, squatted down onto my whim sitting precisely on his body. Slowly she slid backwards, leaving me explicitly asking to be finished off. What I didn’t realize was that she wasn’t the uncomplete sort of muse. She was there to evoke more than emotions in me. The sensation felt from her weight pressing down, covering me as if a warm bun transported me outside across the room. I found myself standing next to the incomplete statue, looking at my muse use her mouth to fish inspiration from me by the millions. I watched myself watch her mouth attend to me like no one ever has.

The beauty of dreams is that they care not for time, space, nor matter. They simply warp exquisite realities out of fantasies. The mind creates experiences out of them without the need for the body to experience them.

She grabbed me by the base, pulled back on me to stand it perpendicular to my body, then resumed with the most alluring process I could have ever imagined. Perhaps the beauty wasn’t what she did, but that I was granted double the perspectives: one as voyeur witnessing her and the other me laying on the floor joined in art, and the second as a participant laying on the floor looking down at her consuming me.

As the voyeur I looked on from a side profile as her tongue drew close to the scrota and her nose touched the shaft. She raise her head slowly tracing the shaft with her nose, followed by her tongue until reaching the tip of the head. Then and there she push in totally covering me with her mouth. She’d slowly raise her head to reach the tip again, only to come back down in the same manner as she came up. Except that on the way down the tongue lead the nose. Again she’d go up tracing with her nose and tongue the shaft up to the where her mouth cleared the tip enough to swallow me head first. It was a slow and meticulous process. She never cared to increase or decrease speed. She was steady at work.

The warmth of her tongue against the shaft made me clench teeth awaiting for her mouth to fully take me. Those lips, oh how well the they crafted against me. Were it not for the wet of the shaft I believe her maroon coloured lipstick would have remained behind as a witness that her lips massaged me to an entirety. She had me freshly cleaned, at least so compared to my torso and the clay soiling her face. My perspectives continuously changed from voyeur to participant as if an erratic viewer in search of captivating televised programming.

Sometimes I would watch her forehead raise up until her mouth cleared from the shaft out to the head, her eyes always staring me down… never did she lose connection to me. Always staring at me as if telling me that she was to draw more than I have ever released in the past. Other times I watched from the side, very closely I came to her as if inspecting her mouth, her tongue. The continuous swap of cleaning and saturation left around the shaft fascinated me. It was as if she wanted to retrace fulfilment upon my engorged longing .

She must have known that I was about to climax, maybe so because I have a tendency to clench the muscles controlling my whim causing him to pull towards the belly button. At that point, she changed nothing. She resumed as she had, but her eyes, oh her eyes asked me to pay close attention to her. So I obliged. I watched as I gulps and streaks of my inspiration expelled towards her face, down the head to the shaft, slowly reaching her hand that had been holding me perpendicular to my resting torso.

Up came her nose against the shaft, followed by the tongue cleansing the streaks of inspiration flowing down from me. Her forehead had received a quality amount of me. At first it didn’t really move, but with the passing minutes of lowering and raising her mouth, it had dripped down covering her right eye. But oh, the flow of the liquid against her lips tying itself to her tongue so that when her mouth cleared high enough in preparation to return back down, oh, it made squeeze fervently to force out as much of inspiration as I could.

And… and she did know how I like to be handled because as she withdrew me from her mouth her hand was squeezing up the urethra pushing out anything and all I had neglected to gift her. Once she completed it felt like both my perspectives joined to give me a simultaneous image of art everywhere I looked; in her face, her lips, her hand, her tongue, even her hair had remains of me. Muse with Chinese Dragon Tattoo on the Back

She didn’t care that there wasn’t anything left to be seduced from me. She grabbed me with her left hand and used me to clean my residue resting on her hand, only to shove me back in her mouth. She jerked me, squeezed tightly, then said, “I’ll be back for more, just think of…”

That’s when I awakened. I pulled the sheet of my body to see that my body did take a participant role in the realities of fantasy. My belly button was covered in me, so was the blanket. I cleaned it off with the sheet itself… and that’s when I ran out to find her.

I remembered instantly who she was, where I had seen her, and where to go to find her… and that’s my muse.

Author: jibarican

https://crimsoncrossing.wordpress.com

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