Terrorized by My Muse (750 words)

Content warning: threat of serious injury, but only in a dream, and not fulfilled.

Giddy with the relief of finally submitting a story, I fell into a dreamless sleep. It took her two hard slaps to rouse me.

I awoke unable to move. She had stripped me and twined soft cotton webbing from my wrists to my ankles to my elbows to my thighs. I was lifting and spreading my own bent legs in the kinkiest of yoga poses.

I saw first an intricately worked brocade corset, then a pair of plump, creamy breasts, and finally her affectionate smile. My muse, my Mistress, my imaginary tormentress. She was kneeling between my spread legs, one hand on my shoulder for support and the other raised to slap me again. Seeing my eyes flutter open, she caressed my cheek instead. "Hi, little boy. Miss me?"

"Please don't hurt me," I blurted. "I submitted the story yesterday."

She laughed, putting one hand to her mouth in feigned chagrin. She wore opera-length latex gloves and even the sick dread coalescing in my stomach could not stop me from admiring their dark gleam. "No, of course not. Not tonight. We'll just have a little chat about your story. Recognize this place?"

I was no longer in my own bedroom. This bed was massive and circular, these sheets silken, those walls hung with tapestries. Through the window I saw a tall minaret.

I had no idea where she had taken me. It could be anywhere. It could have been conjured out of the depths of my over-active imagination, much like my Mistress herself.

"I submitted it yesterday!"

She planted her elbows on my shoulders and rested her chin on her hands. Her smile raised goosebumps on my skin. "And what did you do today?

Oh. Oh, no. "I fixed something." Editing a submission sent it to the back of the queue.

She shook her head sadly. "You couldn't keep your hands off it, could you?"

"I won't touch it again. Please, don't---"

"Don't what?"

"Whatever you have planned. Please, it's not necessary."

"I'm going to help you." She kissed me, pressing her tongue against my lips until I reluctantly let her in. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt you tonight. You might even enjoy it."

She winked, then pushed herself upright. With her kneeling between my legs, I became horribly aware of how this position exposed my cock and balls to her. But where I felt her long, slender fingers was on my ass.

"Please!" I begged.

Now she did reach for my balls. She cupped them in her hand---so soft! so warm!---and gave me a warning look.

I swallowed.

"Good boy." She fondled me briefly, a little reward for coming along quietly, then returned to my ass. Her fingertip circled my anus, massaging lube all around.

"Little pressure now." A finger dipped in. She was gentle, taking her time to open me up with first a pinky, then a thumb, then two fingers, then three, far faster than anyone could accomplish in real life.

"Lot of pressure. Breathe." Something larger nosed its way in. I resisted the urge to bear down, to reject this unwelcome intruder from my most private orifice. She would get it in, one way or the other. The easy way, or the hard way.

"There." She sat back, satisfied now. "Did that jog your memory?"

My memory? Oh, where we were. "No, Mistress."

"Hmm. I know you remember it. How else would I know?"

"I'm sorry, Mistress. You know I don't do anal."

"Do you want a hint? In the book, he got resleeved into a woman's body for this."

My heart lurched. I realized now how much stiffer and narrower it was than a dildo. I started to hyperventilate.

"Where are we, little boy?"

"Altered Carbon. Please don't plug it in. Please." I blinked away tears. "I know I'll be fine when I wake up. But please don't. Please."

"Of course not. Not tonight. But, see? Now I know that you're not going to play with it any more."

"No, I promise. Never again."

"Then we can just cuddle a bit. We never just cuddle any more." She pressed herself against me, warm and soft and perfectly fitted to my trembling body.

"Could---Please, could we cuddle with it out? Please?"

"With what out?"

"The curling iron!" I shrieked.

"No, you need to sit with it in you a little longer." She kissed my cheek, where the tears were running down. "You know I'm only doing this for your own good, right? I'm your muse."

Believe it or not, this was less disturbing than the original scene. Don't read Richard K. Morgan late at night, folks.

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