Proust's Muse - A New Partnership

***The following is the first installment in a series about the collaboration between a neglected housewife and a successful author to create a series of experiences to be used as inspiration for an erotic romance novel. I plan to add a minimum of seven more chapters in the weeks and months ahead. This installment contains more than it's fair share of exposition that I deemed necessary to introduce the main characters and the circumstances under which their partnership began. I tried to add in spice along the way to liven up the narrative while still adequately setting up the series.***

The boy couldn't believe his ears. Who was this stranger and why did they care who he was fucking or why?

"My employer's offer is final," said the slightly overweight, greying man.

"I...I don't understand. Why?" the boy stammered.

"It doesn't matter why, kid. That has nothing to do with you. The only thing you need to know is that you have an opportunity to leave here with ten thousand dollars in your passenger seat. It's that clear-cut. You can use that money to wine and dine and bed as many sorority girls as your heart desires. That's what nineteen year olds are supposed to do ya know."

They boy shook his head in disbelief. It was all so surreal. The man making him the offer was right. It was pretty damned clear-cut. "And all I have to do is never see her again?"

"That's all," the man nodded, "You're in the grocery store and you see her- walk down the next aisle. You're at the movies and she comes in- find something else to do. No contact. And, most importantly, no explanation as to why."

"What am I supposed to tell her?" the boy muttered incredulously, "she's in love with me."

"Kid, that just ain't so. Go live your life. Be a kid. Enjoy college. Just never see her again."

The text conversation that ensued the next evening confirmed the hired man's report that the boy had accepted the money and the terms, though Leanne nor her best friend had any idea the meeting had ever taken place.

L: Get ready for this shit

J:?

L: Psycho says she doesn't want to see me anymore.

J: Why?

L: He says he needs to focus on school and live the "typical college experience"

J: That's good news, right?

L: I mean...yeah...it's just random. Two days ago he's going on and on about going away together, and now he never wants to see me again? Weird.

J: Aren't you relieved? You refer to the kid as "crazy" after all.

L: I am relieved lol It's just that I think I just got dumped by my nineteen year old former student. Kinda a blow to the ego, ya know?

J: You'll find a new one in no time. Homecoming is a smorgasbord I hear.

L: Oh fuck you lol No more students. Never again.

Leanne laid in her bathtub, scrolling through social media, and waiting for the snoring to start echoing from her bed. If she lay there long enough her husband would be asleep and she wouldn't need to feign any affection or intimacy. The day had been long enough without having to fake it with Sam.

After a while, she laid her phone on the floor beside the tub before sinking farther down into the soapy water. Her ample breasts broke through the layer of bubbles and floated on the bathwater in clear sight. What a sight she was, too. At thirty-two she still had it and she knew it. Her hips had bared a child whom she loved with all her heart, but they still flared into her midsection in a way that drew attention all over town. Attention she craved. Attention she got from seemingly every man she knew- except for Sam, whose snoring had just begun in their bed. She hated herself for going outside their marriage, or so she told herself, but a woman like Leanne had needs, and Sam seemed disinterested in even noticing- much less fulfilling them.

And so, Leanne had cuckolded her husband in the most cliché way imaginable. The curvaceous, beautiful teacher with a kind smile and smoky eyes had climbed into bed with a former student a mere seven weeks after he'd graduated. Bed wasn't exactly accurate, though. Typically it was the back of her SUV where they'd climbed, having to avoid her daughter's car seat while they ravaged each other in the darkness.

It was harmless fun. He was headed off to the state university where he'd find some PYT to steal his heart and his chiseled body, and she'd go back to domestic anything-other-than-bliss. Except he didn't find his PYT. He didn't even look. Instead he became more and more obsessed with his own personal Mrs. Robinson. He'd dreamt of seeing what was under his gym teacher's sweats, but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that he'd one day get to rip them off and bury his cock inside her. Now that he had, though, he had no interest in giving her up. No girl in any of his classes to hold a candle to his woman. His woman. Technically she wasn't his. Not yet. But that piece of shit Sam was no real problem. He could keep the kid for all Sam cared, but Leanne was his.

Leanne started to pick up on the boy's growing obsession after more than a few warning signs, but by that point she felt trapped. The kid revealed himself to be more unstable by the day. She cursed herself for creating the situation, but what could be do now? If she broke things off with the boy, she was confident he would at least tell Sam. That was the best case scenario. She feared he might try to do more. So, week after week, she moaned in empty parking lots and enjoyed the orgasms she'd craved for years, despite the fact that they came from a boy she no longer saw as stable. The situation was unsustainable- she knew that much. Yet there seemed to be no way out that didn't involve her life in shambles. And now, for reasons passing understanding, it was behind her.

Reception near her school was shotty at best on most days, so it wasn't unusual for to receive a deluge of missed calls, voicemails, and texts on her way home once she'd driven a mile up the road where the reception was better. This day was no different. Mixed in with the text from her husband asking about dinner and a half dozen other texts from JD and other friends, was a notification for a voicemail from a blocked number. Odd. She tapped the icon and the message began to play over the Bluetooth in her car.

"Hello, Leanne... or should I say Muse?" it began. The voice wasn't menacing; in fact, the deep baritone was quite pleasant, but his words, which he let hang in the air for a moment, turned Leanne's face ashen. Her eyes darted to the stereo as though there was something to be seen from where the voice came.

The voice continued, "A mutual acquaintance of ours seems quite taken with you, and now that I've found you I can see why. He also proved right about your former student. That boy seems...off-tilt...and his behavior was starting to become unacceptable. You must have been worrying yourself sick trying to figure out what to do. I was more than happy to resolve that headache for you. We'll discuss that more this evening when I call at nine-thirty. In the meantime, let's keep this between us. No need for our friend or anyone else to know about our interactions. Remember, Leanne, nine-thirty." The line went silent.

Leanne's knuckles were as white as her normally tanned face as she gripped the steering wheel. Her mind was somehow whirling in circles and completely blank. She pulled into her driveway ten minutes later without any memory of her drive across the winding roads between school and her home. For a long while she sat in the blackness of her garage in complete silence, staring straight ahead but not looking at a thing. "Mommy?" a voice called out, "are you coming in?" Her son's voice broke her trance, but did nothing for the fog in her mind. She smiled and hugged him as she walked through the door. Mommy mode is a strong force. It can overpower hunger, sickness, anger and a million other distractions, but not after a call like that. She did her best to fake it and remain engaged throughout the hours that followed. Homework led to dinner, which led to bath time before the first half of a movie and then bedtime. At one point she slipped away to call her best friend. She was furious at him, and wasn't sure how much she could keep her voice and tone in check with little ears around. What had he said to this mystery caller? How could he tell this man her phone number? "Taken care of the boy?" What the fuck did that mean? Fear of being overheard wasn't the ultimate factor that kept her from calling, though. The voice on the phone had said not to tell JD. She couldn't explain why, but she chose to acquiesce to the instruction.

Sam was playing poker down the street and her son, Liam, was sound asleep by nine. For thirty minutes she paced, then sat motionless, then paced again. There was nothing she could do. The previous two weeks, the ones since it had become clear that her affair was spiraling out of control, had left her paralyzed with anxiety. That worry seemed tedious now. Whoever that man was, whatever he wanted, and her powerlessness do anything but wait for him to call was crushing.

At 09:30:01 her phone finally rang. A form of relief washed over her. Whatever he might say had to be better than the way she'd felt since the voicemail had ended. Knowing what he wanted had to be better than the uncertainty of being left in the dark. Leanne inhaled deeply and set her face into a granite scowl. It was time to stop waiting on the back foot, she told herself. The moment she accepted the call she launched into a rapid-fire torrent of questions- not bothering to wait for an answer to any of them. At least they were out of her head and out in the open.

"Who are you? How do you know my name or about Brian? What did JD tell you? How could he? How dare either one of you meddle in my fucking life? What do you mean you 'took care' of Brian? Did you hurt him? Where is he? I'll call the goddamned police and have the both of you thrown in jail within the hour." She paused for a moment to let her threat settle and regain her breath. No sound came from the other end of the phone. She continued the inquisition, "What. Do. You. Want?" she asked in an exasperated tone. "Forget trying to blackmail me. He wasn't a student anymore. I didn't break any laws, or even any rules for that matter. And I'll tell my husband myself before I let you bully me..."

Another long paused ensued before the man finally spoke.

"Are you finished?"

Silence filled the line.

"Do you want answers to any of those questions or did you just want to rant?"

Still Leanne said nothing.

"Let's go one at a time. I am a writer. You can call me Proust. I know your name, flatly, because I have a substantial amount of money. I'm a fairly prolific author of best selling, mainstream fiction, almost all of which have spent times on the New York Times bestsellers list, but I've decided to take a crack at the Romance/Erotica section of the market. If the drabble of Shades can set the mommy porn world ablaze, I figure I can make a quadruple the sales of my last novel with minimal literary effort. Because I have many plates spinning at once in my work, I have a researcher. When I read our friend's stories on the site about his "muse" I set my researcher out to find you. He found you completely unbeknownst to our friend. He didn't betray you, Leanne. He told me nothing and I didn't ask. The only thing he did wrong was use his full name as his email address to login to the site. His email address led us to his personal social media, which led us to you. With me so far?"

Leanne offered only an icy, "Yes."

"We didn't do anything to the boy. I'd rather not use his name. I've never actually met him. My researcher incentivized him to stop his irrational, borderline psychotic refusal and to let things end quietly. He wasn't hurt. In fact, he wasn't even touched. I have no intention of blackmailing you, Leanne, nor do I have any intention your husband ever finding out about anything- quite the opposite. I mean to help you keep things from him for as long as you wish. Regardless of whether or not we ever speak again, I can assure that your husband will not hear a word of your infidelity from me, nor from anyone under my employ."

"You answered every one of my questions- in order by the way- except for the biggest one of all," she said, her voice noticeably less hostile than before.

"It's a tick of mine. My brain is very organized."

"Sure," she spat, "now answer my goddamned question. And tell me what you did to make Brian go away."

"I paid him ten thousand dollars," he said in a matter of fact tone, as though what he'd said was perfectly normal.

"I don't understand," she said after a slight pause.

"My employee went to his house and offered him ten thousand dollars to never speak to you again with the exception that he was aloud to respond to you one time to break things off. He accepted. End of story," he explained in the same tone.

Leanne was bumfuzzled. "You...you...what...why...but what do you...I...I don't get it," she stammered. She couldn't quite believe her ears. The biggest mistake of her adult life, the one she was convinced would eventually destroy her life, was gone. A sense of relief washed over her for a moment. There was an audible sigh that her new mysterious benefactor could hear through the phone. As quickly as the relief came, it left, replaced by a pang of fear and a great deal of confusion.

The Benefactor broke the silence. "What I want is quite simple, Leanne. I want you to be my muse. I want to write your story. Or, rather, I want us to craft a story together based on your interactions; interactions we'll make sure are far less reckless."

That answered zero questions, she thought. "Interactions?" she asked indignantly, "what interactions? Are you asking me to fuck you?"

He laughed through the phone in a way that made Leanne feel small. Her temper flared, but before she could speak, he apologized in his own way.

"I'm sorry. No. You're a beautiful and intriguing woman, Leanne, but I'm not trying to sleep with you."

"I'm hurt," she spat in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "then stop beating around the bush and tell me what you want from me- specifically."

"I want you to keeping finding a release for the sexual frustration caused by your relationship with your potato sack of a husband. He really is a bizarre little man. I hope you don't mind me saying so. Keep sleeping around as much as you have been- or more if you wish- just do it on my terms."

"Your terms?" she said in a voice somewhere between confusion and blind rage.

"Yes."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I fuck somebody you choose or you let psycho off the leash? Is that it?" Her temper was flaring more now, yet she felt no choice but to keep her composure and listen.

"I have no intention of telling you whom you have to sleep with Leanne. Nor do I plan to take my money back from the boy or allow him to contact you with money still in hand. My intention is to write a story about the sexual liberation of a neglected, interesting woman. You're the only one of those that I know. I need a muse. Or rather, I want a muse. But only if that muse is you."

"You know nothing about me. How could you possibly need it to be me? And I still don't understand what you mean by 'terms.' What is that? How can I be the muse for a complete stranger who has never seen me in the flesh? JD has known me since we were kids. I assume you know that. It's different."

"Yes it is. He's interested, but not engaged. He seems to struggle with each new person you sleep with. You two clearly have a history, a deep emotional connection. You and I do not have that barrier. It allows us to be more open. Raw, if you will."

"But...I still don-"

He cut her off. "Have you ever slept with a man you met on a dating app? At a tailgate? Have you ever been tied up, or tied up someone else? Had sex with a perfect stranger? Have you ever been to a sex club?" She answered no to all of those. He smiled on the other end of the line. He'd guessed right. "Well there you go. That's what I'm talking about. Those are some of the terms," he grinned, placing the same emphasis on the word that she had, "that I have in mind. I'm not interested in who you sleep with, Leanne. That's entirely up to you. My terms would simply be the how."

He waited for a response. Leanne, on the other hand, had nothing. Her mind was spinning and blank simultaneously.

"It would go like this, my dear. I would say, 'within the next 12 hours you need to download a dating app, find a man you're attracted to, and take him to bed- or wherever else you choose to do the deed. I hear you have a thing for cars." Leanne blushed bright red. She was glad he couldn't see her face. He continued, "Then, when it's over, we talk about your experience. What you liked, what you hated, whether you'd relive that experience again, and whether it's a an experience fitting for the Leanne I eventually write. That's it."

A lump rose in her throat. Her phone rattled in her hand as it shook. Was she really about to let some stranger tell her how to find people with which she would cuckold her husband. For a long while she stared through the windshield of her SUV into the darkness of the parking lot where she had parked. Finally she spoke, "I don't want to be made a fool of."

"You won't be," he assured her.

"JD can never know. That's a deal breaker. I won't risk our friendship."

"Never," he answered in with the same warmth. He had her hook, line and sinker, and he knew it.

"And I want twenty percent of the gross sales," she said. Her voice had a confidence in it that told him she was as fascinating as he'd hoped.

"Clever girl."

Silence filled the air and he let it hang there for a nearly a full minute before speaking. "Sounds like we have a deal. I've never had a muse before," he laughed in a self deprecating way, "This will be a first for the both of us. Goodnight, Leanne."

Leanne was taken aback at the sound of the click. She checked her phone to make sure she'd heard correctly, but she had. As suddenly as he'd jolted into her life their conversation was over. What had she just agreed to? And with whom?

Three days passed with no contact from Proust. None from Brian either. That part brought so much relief that it almost drowned out the uncertainty of her relationship with her new "business partner." She was surprised that someone who'd laid on such a full court press in their first interactions would now slow play.

When she woke on the morning of the fourth day she found that the silence had been broken. The voicemail was beyond curt in her eyes. It bordered on rude. She'd have told him so had she any way to contact him. That was the oddest part of the whole thing for her. How was this ever going to work if she couldn't contact him? She'd bring that up when they spoke again she told herself. That, and she wanted the cloak and dagger shit to stop. No more "your mission, should you choose to accept..." nonsense. She'd play on his terms, but they could at least communicate on equal footing.

Leanne made her way back to bed an hour later and opened the app store for the fifth time in ten minutes. She was alone in the house, so why was she so afraid of actually downloading the damned app? Her husband was at work, her daughter was at school, and she had called in sick for the day after they had left for the day. She had no risk of interruption and zero immediate responsibilities. She hovered her finger over the flame logo for a long moment before she finally tapped. She was thirty-two years old, married, and she'd just downloaded a goddamned dating app."This is ABSURD," she yelled out loud, laughing wildly, "I'm downloading a fuck buddy app because a writer I've never met just left me a voicemail telling me to," she deepened her voice to imitate Proust's as repeated his instructions, "Choose whomever you like. Meet them. Fuck them. And do it before midnight. Have fun, my muse."