Original story: Modus Operandi
I fell asleep after 3 am this morning. I’ve noticed I’m not the only one, other writers struggle with this as well. Apparently, muses love to do this; it’s their MO. They come to you, late at night and they pester you about something till wee hours until you give in and write down whatever it is they want you to write down. I can’t even count how many times my Muse did that. Before, I’d instantly comply, get out of bed, fire my PC up, open the fresh Word document and type away. But then it became tedious and pretty fucking inconvenient. On many occasions I decided to gag the Muse and just go back to sleep, thinking how I can always write that stuff down in the morning. But no! She would be so cruel to taunt me the whole night with such outrageously wonderful ideas, perfect plots and delicious descriptions only to leave me high and dry the next day. Yes, payback is a bitch. My Muse taught me that.
So anyway, she did that last night as well. She nagged me about writing an original story. I covered myself over the head and ignored her. Then she said she’d let me write something exquisitely erotic and I perked up. But then I saw the time and, at last, refused. Certainly she wasn’t happy. She made me DREAM the story, can you believe that? Such crass. I said, FINE! I’ll write the damn story first thing in the fucking morning, alright? She complied, but when it was time to sit down with me and write, she decided to punish me by giving me halfhearted stuff.
That is why I dedicate this story to my Muse and her modus operandi, because that is exactly how she operates.
Modus Operandi
“It's after 2 am,” her voice was slightly muffled by the comforter she wrapped herself in. The sound of her fighting against sleep lured a small smile on my face but, as she spoke, my eyes remained focused on the laptop screen and the rhythm of my fingers tapping on its keys. “Come to bed,” she purred.
“I’ll be a few more minutes,” I said, following the string of appearing letters on the virtual paper with my eyes. “I’m almost finished.”
I couldn’t see her, but I was pretty sure her lips formed a pout, “You said that an hour ago. And an hour before that.”
My smile grew bigger, “This time I mean it.”
The rustling of sheets and bedding made me slow my typing tempo, and then from the corner of my eye, and the corner of the room unlit by the small table lamp I had on next to me, I noticed her getting out of the bed. Her feet were bare and they quietly patted against the floor as she slowly walked over.
“What are you writing, anyway?” Her hands came to rest on my shoulders and I felt the warmth of her body slowly passing onto mine.
“A project proposal for the summer camp studio.”
“Hmmm,” she hummed and then lowered her head next to mine making her long locks brush against the side of my face. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled the scent of her shampoo. “Crunching numbers,” she smiled, “How sexy. Come to bed.”
“I just have a few more tables to fill out and I’m done.”
It took more than a slightly faked work ethic to steer her away from her original intent. I came to know it many times before, and that time was no different. “The fire is almost out,” she tried a new angle. “You’ll freeze to death.” The two logs she threw into the fire just before midnight were down to little bits of burned out wood. I let out a chuckle when her fingers slid under the collar of the shirt I wore as my pajamas. It was her brother’s shirt; I raised an eyebrow at her when she offered it to me earlier that evening, the oversized sky blue shirt with starched white cuffs, a matching collar and a tag on the back of it that indicated its obscenely high price. I had to roll up the sleeves all the way up so they would fit me, as the shirt’s hem reached almost to my knees.
“I have you to keep me warm,” I replied, adamant that the slow strokes of her fingers against my skin don’t break my will.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do and you’re playing elusive with me.”
“Honey...” I sighed and moved my fingers off the laptop keyboard, sitting back in the chair.
She saw her chance and quickly moved to the front of me, swiftly squeezing into the space between my chair and the desk and slid down to straddle my lap. I shook my head at her victorious grin.
“If you’d only let me concentrate long enough I might finish this and be done with it for the rest of the weekend.”
She placed the palms of her hands flat against my upper chest, “Why don’t you take a break and concentrate on me for a bit?”
“You’re impossible,” I laughed.
“Not nearly as you writers are.”
“Oh?” I arched an eyebrow, “And how many writers have you been distracting lately?”
“Besides you?” I nodded my head and she pretended to count off in her head. “One.” I frowned and after a moment of teasing she said, “Anne.”
“Anne?”
“Berkhoff.”
I made a face at the last name that sparked an image in my memory of the loud and intrusive woman I met a few years ago at some party. “She’s a writer?”
“She used to write for the high school paper.” She closed her eyes, drawing out her own memory, “God, she was such a good kisser. We used to go behind the gym during the recess for a grope.”
I scrunched up my nose, “Ack. I do not need that image in my head.”
Her hands moved from my chest, across the collarbone, and up the neck to gently cup my face. She brushed both of her thumbs over my lips. “But she was not nearly as good as you are. Both on the writing and the kissing front.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Is it sweet enough for you to ditch the workshop budgets and travel expenses for an hour?”
“An hour?” I grabbed her wrists to stop her hands from wondering. “It’s half past two in the morning. How do you expect me to continue working after an hour of that?” I nodded my head in the general direction of the bed.
She smirked, “Actually, I don’t. I expect you to fall asleep like a baby.”
“I love how supportive you are of my working habits.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’m just looking after you and your needs.”
“I need to finish this.”
“Okay, my needs then.”
“I thought we dealt with those earlier today. Twice.”
“Three is the magic number.” Her smile turned slightly evil and I knew my defenses were about to crumble down. “I’ll tell you what,” she inhaled deeply, “I’ll let you go about your work if you promise to tell me a story.”
“Sure.” I complied. “I’ll write you one first thing in the morning.”
“Nonono.” She shook her head with a smile making her locks bounce around her face, “I want you to tell me a story.”
I frowned in confusion. “What kind of a story?”
“This kind,” her teeth flashed for a second in a smile so taunting I almost lost my breath. She bowed her head lower, slowly bit down on my shoulder and then smoothed the bite with a long swipe of her tongue.
“You know that’s not my style.” I tried to defend myself once again.
With a firm tilt she pressed me deeper into the chair with her body. “Make it your style.”
I closed my eyes and relaxed under her, tilting my head back against the chair. My hands came to rest on the top of her thighs. With my mind slowly starting to drift off under the ministrations of her kneading fingers on my shoulders and her wet tongue sliding against my neck, I rejoined, “So you’re giving me a choice between telling you and showing you?”
“Not anymore.” She breathed next to my ear and I shivered.
“You won’t give this up, will you?” I smiled.
“Nuh-huh.”
“Should I start with ‘Once upon a time’?” I joked and then yelped quietly when her teeth dug into my shoulder one more time, but much harder. “I guess that’s a no,” I grunted.
“You can start with me unbuttoning your shirt,” she offered only a moment before I felt her fingers doing just that.
“I am so bad at this, you know that.”
“You’re shy.” She corrected me, letting the shirt to fall open, making her leer at the sight in front of her.
“Can I just make some dirty flash cards and show them to you?”
She chuckled as her index finger traced from the dip at my throat to my navel, “You’re an idiot.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I shouldn’t allow myself to succumb to your influence, is what I shouldn’t do.”
“That is also true.” She agreed and then in one swift motion her shirt was pulled over her head and gone.
“You’re not being fair,” I exhaled as her hands covered mine and then pulled them up from her thighs to just under her breasts. I cupped them in my palms making her close her eyes.
“What’s the point of fair if it doesn’t feel good?” She tilted over me, propping her hands against the back of the chair. Her hair fell around our faces like a curtain.
“What’s the point, indeed?” I groaned just before she leaned in and licked across my lips bidding my mouth to accept her kiss.
It is futile, she once said, a long time ago when we first met, to disobey her wishes and challenge her will. From the first moment I allowed her to enter my life, she owned me.
The end.