HeatMarie

Like a bad boyfriend, my muse only shows up on a rare occasion with a bottle of wine just to fuck me. The light streaming from the laptop is bright enough to see him finish the last knot on the rope as he ties me to the chair. I do not struggle; I sit here willingly, wanting nothing more than to please someone, anyone. Looking up from the knot to my muse, he says to me, “Now, sit here like a pretty little slut and write.”

Mixed emotions of excitement, hope, anticipation, and fear intertwine as my muse walks the few small steps to the edge of the bed. He sits, then watches me as I struggle.

I try to grab the pen, but I am bound so tightly that it is out of my reach.

“How am I supposed to do this with my hands tied?” I ask.

“You’re creative,” he says with a smirk on his face as he takes a sip of wine. “Figure it out.”

It takes me a moment to realize that all I have to do is want something bad enough and with a little work it comes to me. Now, with the pen in my hand, I turn my focus to the notebook that sits next to my laptop. Blank pages stare back at me and I know that I must fill them with the story that is locked somewhere beneath the intricately laced knots my muse tied around my body.

I look to the words and phrases written on the wall in front of me. They are nothing more than the scattered ideas of a writer’s minefield; one wrong word or one wrong phrase could mean the destruction of everything I worked for.

The image of my muse shaking his head in disappointment makes the rope tighten against my flesh as I struggle to put the pen to paper. I pour another glass of wine, hoping that one more sip will drown out the vision. I don’t want to be the bad writer he’ll always think me to be. So this needs to be perfect. But finding the right words is like finding the perfect seductive pose: chest out, gut sucked in, one foot on the wall, chin up, eyes down, don’t move, don’t breathe, just so someone will enjoy this.

“She’s got your tongue in her mouth again, doesn’t she?”  My muse says.

His words bring my attention to her warm breath against my ear as the Angel in the House speaks softly, “And you thought he was here to help you. Poor girl, you still know nothing.”

Her hand runs through my hair, awakening the unease inside of me. I don’t want any of this to frighten me; more than that, I don’t want either of them to know how uncomfortable this is. Having someone watch every move I make, read every thought I have, and then judge me for it makes the entire process more exhausting than it has to be. If only I didn’t care so much. If only I could find the right way to tell the story and get my message across without it being misconstrued. I close my eyes and steady my breath, for deep down inside I know we all must get a little uncomfortable from time to time.

I put the pen to the paper. The ink stains the white sheet with a simple black dot that grows in size as my brain betrays me. Every time I think of something to write I hear the Angel whispering, “Do not not write that. You are showing too much of yourself, my dear. Some things are best just kept private. Think of what others will say. Imagine it, see the shock and disgust on their faces when they read this.”

Small laughter comes from my muse. I look up from the paper to where he sits on the bed. I wait for his help. He doesn’t move. He sits there, smiles once again, and winks. “I enjoy watching you struggle with her. Who would have thought the Angel in the House would be such a dirty girl, trying to keep you all to herself?” The three clicks of his tongue make me squirm.

With every move I make, the rope digs deeper into the flesh. The burning friction intensifies, stealing my attention. It is all I can think about. Drawing in a breath, I hold it for a moment, then slowly exhale, hoping to relieve the pain. And yet, the pain brings the words, so I scribble down the first few lines.

“Like a bad boyfriend, my muse only shows up on a rare occasion with a bottle of wine, just to fuck me. He brings with him another woman. She is beautifully breathtaking in her black dress with her long blonde hair. If it wasn’t for the way she walks with poise and confidence and the sound of her heels echoing throughout the dimly lit room, I’d swear I was watching my reflection.”

I shake my head and scratch out the last few lines.

“You know,” my muse says, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, “I could make this easy for you. But I’d rather you beg for it.”

So I do. I stand up from the chair, fall to my knees and plead, “Help me!”

“And what do good girls say?” He asks.

“Please!” It is my simple reply.

He lifts my chin, and the warmth from his hand makes me sigh with relief.

“Now that’s my good girl.” He looks from me to the Angel and says to her, “You can go now.”

With the opening and closing of the door, it occurs to me that writing is just another version of a sexual roleplay with a different version every night. Each story starts as a one-off kind of deal. I spend time with it, fuck around a bit. See what happens. The next day I’ll wake up with a slight regret knowing that someone somewhere is criticizing my every action. And still, occasionally, one story comes back for seconds. If it was good enough the first time, it stays and I write.

When the story is complete, it leaves a bitter-sweet taste resting on the tip of my tongue. I believe the punishment of writing is over.

Sitting blindfolded on the floor, I hand my muse the notebook and beg for him to read it. If nothing else, I want him to lie to me; tell me it is pretty with its words a mess, commas all over the place, and ink smeared from the tears that fell from my face.

He reads the last line, and I ask, “Was that okay?”

With another lash to the back of my thighs, he says, “It was good. Just not my style. You understand.”

I should have expected nothing less for this is his answer every time. Yet still, there is a part of me that wants to tell him he just read it wrong. If he will read it one more time, I’m sure he’ll find satisfaction in what I have given him. My heart falls to my stomach. Throughout the night, I was sure this was going to be the story that made him say it was wonderful. I mean, I wrote it for him, about him. But here I am, standing in his disapproval. I could ask him what would make it better. Secretly, I already know. See, the more I write, the more he disapproves, the easier the entire process gets. And then, the gut-wrenching feeling fades faster than it has before.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with the notebook in my hands, I turn the page to find comfort and enjoyment in the twisted, masochistic torture that is finding the pleasure in pain as I read the words all over again.