An Introduction

There they wait…my muses…lurking in the back of my mind.  I can see
them in my imagination as clearly as if they stood before me.  They’ve
been gone for so long, I had forgotten what they were like.  They are
the goddess and god of my creativity, opposite and equal, a tandem I
cannot write without.

She takes my breath away with a smile, breaks my heart with a look.  A
couple inches shorter that me, she’s exquisite in a way that would
make a Greek sculptor weep to set eyes on her.  With haunting gray
eyes she can discern the secrets of my soul with a glance, and set my
skin aflame with a dip of her eyelashes.  Her rich, thick, sun-kissed
hair begs for a touch, its color neither blonde nor brown, just long
enough to cover the top of her shoulders.  Her full lips form words
that sink me into deep contemplation and in the next instant brush
against my ear as she delivers desires on warm, humid breaths.  Her
name is Katherine, Kat for short; but she will whisper in my ear,
“Call me Kitten,” and I will be that helpless before her.  She moves
with the grace of a leaf drifting on the wind; the movement of her
hips reminiscent of rocking of the waves against the shore, and just
as irresistible; her curves inviting the touch of my hands as well as
my eyes.
She waits, just out of reach.  The time isn’t right yet for her to
deliver that rush that will carry me off down the cascade of words,
struggling to keep afloat as I funnel her through to the page.

He is a presence that overpowers me, pure and simple.  Broad
shoulders, strong arms, hands that cradle me as if I were made of
china.  His voice is low, its timber such that I can feel it rumble
through me when he’s close.  I lose a heartbeat every time my eyes
look up to meet his.  He will not tell me his name; it is a
competition to see if he can resist my attempts to discover it.  I’ve
come close.  Where she is the pure definition of languid passion, he
is that rushing river of desire that rips through me and sends me to
my knees with ease.  His is a language without words, actions that
show what he feels, what he wants, what he needs.  With a simplicity
that is stunning in its beauty he will show me his will, and when
words are spoken, they are direct, cutting to the heart of the issue
with ease. His is the solidity of the mountain that draws my awe, and
my desire to conquer; to wear him down with persistence and tender
touches; to gentle him; to feel him at my mercy.
He harnesses that force she sends through me and guides it, taming the
flow, easing the pain by shouldering its burden.

They visit and overwhelm; withdraw and make me ache with need.  I
hunger for them like a junkie needing a fix, all the while knowing
they will not stay…cannot stay.  I ride the high that they induce
until I crash; be it hours, days, or weeks.  Yet the crash is
inevitable.  They will fade back into the shadows of my mind even as
they overload my imagination, as I attempt to capture the images and
words and sensations they attempt to share with me.  Then I will seek
them again…

 

© Scarlett Greyson

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2 Comments

  1. Lovely descriptions! I do believe my muse is likely a dark haired dominatrix. She’s smiles and promise when we’re face to face, and vicious the minute my back is turned. With us, it’s a battle of the wills.

  2. […] week, Wednesday-ish, I think, inspiration did arrive.  And my muse didn’t thwack me.  No, my muses grabbed me, sat me down, and said WRITE.  WRITE NOW.   Between Thursday morning and today […]


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