Inspiration Ch. 07

Rosangela woke to discover the sun peeking through the drawn blinds just behind the large bed. Her eyes were aimed upward, focused on the cracks of morning sunlight. Her eyes shifted down, caught glimpse of the infamous pulley bolted to the ceiling, a grin perked over her lips. Her eyes shifted to her right, no Victor Hardway.

Her eyes frowned then her nose wrinkled, caught whiff of food. Slowly she sat up, her eyes scanned the dim morning light lit room. She slightly grinned, she woke up in Victory Hardway's bed in his loft bedroom inside his apartment. Her grin faded as her eyes frowned with question.

She quietly mumbled a question to herself, "What are you doing?" her head shook as she slapped her hands over her face then she questioned herself again, "What do you think you're doing?"

Her hands dropped as her bottom pierced lip pouted.

An amazing three days with the author of her dreams and she was delivered into questioning everything that happened and why it happened.

For three years she basically reevaluated her life, changed herself into a woman she knew she was meant to be. She was never meant for the life of a meek little housewife which eventually ended her marriage.

She softly grumbled with frustration that seemed to grow from somewhere inside her that she once thought would never be located again. Her thoughts went to the revelations of the night before.

No, not the revelations that Victor Hardway was a genius when it came to giving her one mind blowing orgasm after another. But it was the revelation that there were emotions inside her that she thought had vanished when she took control of her life three years prior.

She twisted on her naked rear and brought her legs over the side of the bed, felt something brush against the side of her foot. She leaned forward and peered down at the torn plastic bag that previously suffocated her. A subtle smile crossed her lips but quickly vanished when she returned her focus elsewhere on more unsettling thoughts.

She rose up off the bed and quietly tiptoed around the bed, fetching both the corset and wrap dress off the floor. Briefly she paused, looked to the set up tripods. Again a brief smile but it again faded into concern.

Across the floor she moved as she redressed only in the wrap dress. She snuck towards the side table as the aroma of obvious breakfast continued to fill the apartment.

At the side table she fumbled about the drawers as quietly as possible, saw the open box of oven roasting bags which managed to perk another grin.

She blinked and rid herself of those fonder thoughts.

From a second row drawer she removed a pad of paper then snatched an ink pen from the same drawer. She pulled the cap with her teeth then took a deep breath in preparation to write.

Victor's voice greeted, "Good morning."

Rosangela startled, dropped the pen as the cap fell from her mouth, then darted her eyes to the top of the metal stairs that led onto the loft bedroom. Her eyes were wide as they looked at the author. She gasped, "Morning."

His eyes frowned then looked to the side table, immediately noticed the blank note pad and dropped pen. His eyes returned to her startled expression then he asked, "What are you doing?"

She quickly shook her head then denied, "Nothing."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion then he strolled up to her and looked to the note pad then back to her. He questioned, "Nothing?"

"Um," she mumbled in attempt to gather an excuse for the paper and pen he obviously noticed.

His head tilted, clearly read something amiss about her, then questioned her again, "Leaving?"

Again she mumbled, "Yeah," she bobbed her head, "Um, yeah, I gotta go."

His frown tensed with further suspicion then he inquired, "Why? I thought you had the day off."

Her head again bobbed and she said, "Yeah, I do but, um, I gotta do some errands." she nervously laughed, "You know, bills and all that good stuff."

He highly doubted her excuse but went along with it. He suggested, "Well, why not eat breakfast before you go."

She forced an awkward smile then declined, "That's great of ya but I really need to hand over my share of the rent to the returned roomies." her eyes deviated from his, purposely scanned the room for her shoes, "I'll come back later tonight or something."

She again laughed then pointed out her shoes. Quickly she scurried away from the side table and raced for the shoes.

She grabbed one shoe and explained, "Um, I made a decision." she stumbled a bit and grabbed the other shoe off the floor, "Tonight's your night."

She rose up with her shoes dangling from her hand then looked to him with a huge smile. She nodded in agreement of her statement, "Yeah, tonight's the night, Mr. Hardway." she held her smile though it felt as if it nearly hurt her face, "You get want you want."

He crossed his arms over his chest, his suspicions escalated seeing her awkward demeanor and hearing the nervousness in her tone. He said nothing.

She hated how he looked at her with his gorgeous eyes narrowed and the stern suspicion highlighting the intricate features of his face. She knew he sensed something more was going on with her and hated it. Her face truly started to hurt with how hard she tried to keep that smile across her lips.

He finally spoke and offered, "Let me drive you home." He turned for the stairs.

"No," she protested.

He stopped, slowly turned to the side and eyed her with question.

She nervously giggled then stated, "Thanks but I'll call a cab."

His lips tensed with a bit of frustration then he shook his head and, without a word, retreated down the stairs.

Her face twisted with her own frustration towards her damned behavior. She softly grumbled then headed for the stairs. Down the stairs her bare feet slapped against each metal step, she knew he was likely annoyed.

At the bottom of the stairs she watched him head towards the kitchen area. She loudly stated, "I'm sorry." across the living room section she scurried, paused to slip on her heels, "I'm just in a hurry, that's all."

He stepped behind the kitchen island and proceeded to pour himself a cup of coffee. Nonchalantly he commented, "That's fine." then he moved to the dining table sipping his coffee.

She froze near the dining table, watched him sit down and proceed to enjoy breakfast. Her shoulders slumped then she promised, "I'll be back around eight or so, okay."

He nodded without looking at her as he tucked forkful of omelet into his mouth.

She felt somewhat dissed by him. Her eyes frowned as they shifted back and forth with awkwardness. "Ah," she mumbled again, "Well, I'll..." she felt defeated by herself and the situation, "Okay, well, later."

She turned, limply lifted her arm and gave him a quick wave then headed in direction of the elevator.

His eyes finally looked as she walked away. His jaw slowly chewed as he watched her vanish beyond the brick wall.

He thought to himself, there was something very odd going on with his inspiration. Her constant demeanor switches were very distracting for his creativity. Though she claimed that evening he would finally get what he wanted, her demeanor stole any enthusiasm.

His eyes blinked, heard the elevator gate lift then lower. He knew she had planned to steal away without him knowing and likely was going to leave a letter behind as explanation.

He swallowed, listened to the elevator lower. His eyes looked to the array of paintings and he noted in thought, she was more complex than any of the others before her. Yet, she was the only ever to get as close as she had.

He set down the fork then rose from the table. Toward the wall of painted portraits he moved, his mind not where he knew it should be, his art. Her announcement that his time had come should be his focus but she was the focus.

Before the centered painting he stepped, his eyes shifted one direction then the other studying the several different women who had entered his life for one evening only then left without any further contact.

For three days his latest muse had been in his life, far longer than any other. And, that evening, the fourth day, would likely be last time she would be in his life.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes to the painted images of his past bound inspirations. Behind his closed eyes was the image of his current inspiration. Yes, she succeeded in changing his creative process but had she changed more than that?

His eyes opened but were aimed at the floor not the paintings. Slowly he turned, his eyes looked the direction she vanished. His jaw clenched and flexed.

Perhaps Rosangela wasn't the only one in that odd situation with underlining issues from the past.

Rosangela returned to her shared town house, it was empty for the roommates were at work. She never ran any errands, took a lengthy hot shower then sat in her bedroom with her head all over the damned place within her jumbled and concerning thoughts.

She would return to the author's apartment and fulfill their bargain. Yet, she was somewhat leery about returning. No, she wasn't with concerns about what Victor Hardway would do to achieve his complete creative release. She was concerned about the outcome when it came to an end.

On the edge of her bed she sat naked, her eyes glazed with thought as they stared blankly at the floor. Her hands were tucked between her thighs as she simply sat in complete silence with her thoughts. A somber expression coated every feature of her face. There was nearly a draining feeling that weighed down on her.

She was in a battle of sorts within her thoughts. There were questions why she felt the way she did.

For over a decade she was trapped within a loveless marriage covered by a mirage of happiness and fulfillment. She never hated her ex husband, just hated their marriage which lacked those many elements she truly desired but hid. And it wasn't until that one day when she stepped into a mainstream bookstore and roamed the long aisles that she discovered what her miniscule life lacked.

She remembered the moment her eyes were caught by the most erotic image she had ever seen up until that point.

On the cover of a hardback book was the image of a woman with her body bent and twisted in an artful manner while coiled by brilliant and beautiful bright red rope.

Her hands, nails unpainted, grasped old of that unique book with a woman's equally unique name scrolled along the top. Her blue eyes, no black to enhance the color, looked to the author's name artfully depicted in intricate font, Victor Hardway.

The book was flipped to its back sleeve and her eyes read the detailed synopsis that wove a tale of erotic exploration. A smile formed over her natural toned lips lacking a silver labret loop, a smile of complete intrigue and curiosity.

The back cover was opened and her eyes widened the moment they peered at the author's black and white photograph.

A gray fedora atop his head and a lit cigar tucked between his fingers with the tip near his lips. And what she noticed immediately, his eyes. Those very expressive eyes with defining lines etched between his brows were the very first feature that drew her in.

That day, she started to change.

She left the bookstore with four Victor Hardway erotic novels and returned to that typical existence. And the very moment she returned home, alone she began a journey which led to no turning back.

All those desires she had set aside for marriage returned upon the first chapter of the first book. Her mind became filled with all the detailed visuals the author's writing expertly described with his image in place of the male dominating character.

Those books, each one being read thoroughly, reached and pulled from within her those buried desires and she secretly embraced them behind her husband's back. She would anticipate her husband's departure to work. The moment his car left the driveway of their cookie cutter house she would immediately familiarize herself with those secret desires.

The scenarios written within the novels were transformed within her mind. She added her secrets while placing herself in the hands of the dominating character in Victor Hardway's appearance. All those fantasies, she never realized that Victor Hardway was each and every one of those characters.

Those few days within the author's world told her the truth that each male character was him, he placed himself in all truth in his novels. Yet, she knew that each of those female characters, those the books were named for, they were created with the interior he chose.

She laid back against the bed and blankly looked up at the ceiling of her bedroom. Questions developed, more questions. Who were those women?

She understood that those women on the covers were merely an exterior representation of those written about. Her mind drew in more details concerning those covers.

Each woman was different in appearance and each posed differently but all with the signature red rope twisted around them. Yet, the one detail they all shared besides the rope, they were beautiful. All had beautiful faces and impeccable bodies.

She huffed as her eyes shifted down and peered down her naked body. Her hands lifted and gently cupped over her larger C sized tits. All those women seemed to have the perfect sized tits, perky and not as large as hers.

Her hand slid down against her belly. Yes, she had a subtle belly, not full of jelly but a slight curved tummy. All those women had nearly flat stomachs.

Her hands slid further down against the curve of her hips. She was curvy but not in a severe way. Her hips bones curved nicely down into the slightly outward curve of her thighs. She always prided herself having curves, not a walking stick with tits. Yet, all those women, their curves seemed smooth without any extra bumps, perfect lines connecting every proportion of their figures.

She slowly sat up as her hands moved against her fuller thighs. No, her thighs didn't rub together and cause friction but they didn't have a huge thigh gap either. And it seemed the majority of those women had the supposedly desirable thigh gap.

She stood up and moved to the standing mirror. Before the mirror her eyes took in the details of her not so perfect body.

She turned to the side, her eyes studied the outward plump curve of her ass. Both hands moved against her ass, the previous night both cheeks were hardily cracked by the author's hands. She turned her back to the mirror, looked over her shoulder at her naked ass.

Her eyes frowned with question then she asked aloud, "Why me?"

The classical music played and echoed through the loft apartment. The soft scent of cigar smoke was in the air as it drifted from the open loft bedroom.

Victor Hardway stood before the easel mounted canvas, a cigar tucked between his lips, shirtless, and a cream toned fedora with a soft tan band atop his head. His eyes focused on the canvas as in his hand was a paintbrush.

Since Rosangela's departure from the apartment, he immediately found himself overflowing with the need to create. Unlike his ritualistic process, he created without a bound muse in the same room. In his mind those inspirational images were fresh and vivid and onto the painted black canvas the image came to life.

Hours he stood, his focus unhindered. There was no multiple printed photos to guide him. There was no physical muse. There was nothing but what was in his mind. Cigar after cigar, glass after glass of wine, and hours of standing before the canvas a new painting came to life before his concentrating eyes.

Stroke after stroke, the chosen paint colors brought together the perfect image. And the image being brushed into existence was unlike any he had ever created before.

As he continued, the erotic tale began to be written within his mind which fueled the painting's emergence.

Through the music came the sound of the main door buzzer.

He paused mid brush stroke. His head slowly turned as he removed the cigar from his lips.

Again the buzzer sounded.

Rosangela stood before the call box and again pressed the button with the author's name beside it. She glanced at the heavy metal doors then back to the call box. Her eyes narrowed as they stared at the author's name. Was he pissed about her abrupt departure?

She took a step back, eyes darted to the doors but there came no sound of the lock. Her lips puckered with frustration as she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She took a few steps back and her head tilted back with her eyes aimed at the top floor of the narrow building, each window of his apartment lit up.

Her arms tightened as her face wrinkled and twisted with anger.

Was it over?

She caved, turned on her heels and marched down the sidewalk away from the doors. Each heel nearly stomped against the cracked sidewalk as her arms remained tightly embraced over her chest. Her head lowered and eyes aimed down. Her heart pounded with her anger but within it was an ache.

It was over.

From the apartment window Victor watched Rosangela, his inspirational muse, disappear around a street corner. He drew back the cigar then slowly exhaled passed his lips, his expression unreadable. He turned from the window.

She continued in a heated stomp along the sidewalk, never bothered calling another cab. Everything inside her seemed a fucked up mess. Why was she angry? Who was she angry with, herself or the author?

She had no reason to be angry or did she?

Yes, she knew it was a temporary set up. Yet, she was damned confused why he completely blew off getting what he wanted from the very beginning. Those passed few days was supposed to lead up to him getting his complete creative freedom but he suddenly up and blew her off.

Her heels scraped to a halt. Her head lifted and eyes looked forward with a glare. She loudly grumbled, "What the hell?"

She wasn't satisfied!

She spun on her heels then marched back the way she came. With quick strides, she returned along the sidewalk with her eyes aimed at the corner of the street. Her lips tightly pressed together. "Oh," she grumbled, "This shit ain't over until I say its over!"

Around the corner she stomped and headed straight for those big old heavy metal doors. She sharply turned on her heels then moved before the call box. No, she wasn't going to care how long it took but she sure in hell hadn't said it was over.

Her finger stabbed against the call button beside the author's name then she held firmly holding the button down. She stood there, her heel tapped the concrete single step while her finger remained pressed against the button.

His eyes narrowed, the buzzer steadily went off. He put down the paintbrush and set the cigar in the ashtray. On his bare feet he turned then hurried down the metal stairs.

Her heel continued to tap rapidly against the concrete. Nope, she thought, not going to let up on the button until he answered.

He raced up to the intercom call box, jammed his thumb against the intercom button then shouted, "What?!"

Her eyes snapped wide at the tone of voice that just came out of little speaker. She hit the button and demanded, "Let me in!"

His voice replied, "No need."

She gasped in surprise with her lips gaped. She struck the button again and demanded, "Let me in, dammit!"

His voice replied, "There's no need. You may go."

Her eyes glared at the little speaker then she pressed the button again and slowly but loudly repeated, "Let... me... in!"

No response.

She hit the button again, felt as if she were going to break it, then shouted, "Victor fucking Hardway, you let my ass in right now or I swear to god..."

The doors clicked.

She swiftly shoved through the door and stormed towards the elevator with her arms stiffly down. She angrily jerked up the elevator gate, stomped into the elevator then nearly jerked the gate down. Her finger jabbed the floor button then she stood with arms tightly crossed as the elevator carried her the author's upward direction.