The Diary of an Artist's Muse

He immediately pushed a kiss into her yielding folds. She caught a breath, stroked his hair. "Just a little OK? I mustn't..." her voice trailed off as he lapped along her salty-slickness.

"What a world," she sung. "What a fucking world." She pulled back her clit hood, and watched his tongue flicker, before her eyes drooped shut.

He relished her marshmallowy flesh, licking lightly, and then with more focus, while she coo-ed and moaned and pulled his head firmer and firmer between her legs.

But she gasped as he sucked on her, and pushed him away. "Careful!"

He sat back, stroked her thighs, and watched her hole tense as she puffed out a shivery breath. When her spasms ebbed, he dipped his head again. She reached between her knees and pulled his face to hers instead, kissing his wet lips.

"I want this to last forever," she said for both of them.

He stood, and she rubbed her palm along the distortion in his combats. She cleared her throat, swallowed and for a dizzy moment he felt they'd live forever, caught at the edge of orgasm until the end of time.

The swollen moment popped and she stood, unfastening a lace at the neck of her dress. A few tugged fastenings later she wriggled the muslin off her shoulders and down her legs, then spun on Grunt.

"Come on!" She yanked Grunt's combats and boxers down in one, he lumbered about, levering off his boots while trying to pull the t-shirt off over his head. Niamh was on her knees, useless, helpless with giggles, pecking kisses at his alfresco cock and balls.

Finally they stepped out of their shed skins. Grunt went to hug Niamh but she jumped onto his back. "Giddyap!"

He hooked his arms under her knees, and she proceeded to ride him through the maze. In moments, she was wriggling against any tensed muscle she could find on him. She curled her arms twice round his neck and nuzzled, panting hot breaths into his ear. "Good boy. Good... boy."

They came to the centre of the maze, a large pond surrounded by a wide, stone bench. Beyond, an arched bush framed the house and offered a direct route back to the lawns. He considered taking Niamh to their bed, or even the soft lawn, but couldn't wait. He shrugged her off him like a rucksack, laid her on the sun-warmed marble.

She slinked on the stone, her inner thighs shockingly glossed, her horniness gone beyond playful to deadly serious. She fixed a hooded gaze at his cock, bit her bottom lip. Then spread her lower lips.

He offered his cock to her opening and rocked his taut bulb in and out. She nudged for more but he took his time, inching into her deeper with each dip until he plunged balls deep in long fluid strokes. She moaned. Her eyes shut, and she sagged, as if caving in. He felt like she'd given over to him.

So he watched her carefully as he pushed, partly to distract himself, but looking for any sign she might lose control and their bliss would end. Each of his thrusts drew a sigh from her and loosened her grip on him, he built his pace as she writhed below him, clawing her breasts.

Suddenly she arched, whispered, "Y-yes."

He pulled out.

She lifted to her elbows, blinking in confusion, but he quickly settled his mouth between her legs instead, taking her entire vulva into him. She honked her clownish laugh, then flopped back, hooked her arms behind her knees and splayed.

Grunt's cock pulsed, chilly in the breeze, and he licked his gorgeous ghost, poised for signs she might come. She rocked at his mouth, a sinuous wave that started on her lips with "Fuck!", snaked down her spine to tip her hips to his tongue, then rolled back up her body to another curse.

But the second her hips tensed and her breath hitched, he stood up from her.

She was pink from cheeks to tits, smiling dreamily. He slid his cock effortlessly back inside her, and she coiled her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, squeaking madly as every thrust, faster and harder now, threatened to unsucker their lips.

But his own hunger grew. He leant back to kneel beneath her bottom, grasped her hips and sped up, pulling her onto his length. He became so lost in her swallowing hole, in her juices dripping from his balls, she'd arched and was muttering her second "Fuck! Yes!" before he quickly pulled her to his mouth instead.

He managed to repeat the sequence for two more delirious reps, before, as he denied her release one more time and dipped to eat her, Niamh rolled onto all fours and launched her mouth at his cock.

After the compelling, warm engulfment of her cunt, her mouth didn't help at all. She lay on her front, kicking her legs playfully behind her, clearly enjoying the power. She licked herself from his balls, wanked him, and ran a lapping tongue up and down his length, all the while glinting mischievously up at him.

His knees wobbled, and she guided him by the cock to the bench where he collapsed like a carcass onto a butcher's block. She climbed on top of him, pivoting around his cock, top to tail, her hips smothering his face. She attacked.

What started as game to hold off each other's orgasm turned competitive, teasing each other to come.

Her cunt dribbled over his tongue, turning her flesh sloppy and indistinct, while her sucking and rubbing on him blurred into one irresistible pull--a steady relentless drawing of his orgasm across 139 years into her mouth. Almost in self-defence, he slipped a finger into her while he sucked her clit, but her groan, vibrating through his cock, threatened to undo him. He clamped down, trembled, one pulse from erupting.

And she hopped off.

She stood proud over him, beaming omnipotently from behind madwoman hair, regarding him like a playground, then swung a leg across his hips. She impaled herself on his cock with a guttural. "Oh."

Their shared fantasy was too much. After two thrusts, they charged at each other's orgasms. Niamh rode his bucking hips, howling into the sky. "Fuck yes! Fuck yes, Fuck yes!" and Grunt rammed, tossing her on his cock, gritting his teeth. Gritting everything.

Her fluttering hole undid him. Her winding hips stuttered to a halt with Grunt lodged deep inside.

So be it. They'd come together. His rush balled in his hips. He reared. Niamh quivered.

She disappeared.

No. Torn off him.

Shackam dragged her across the pavement by her hair, her agony-clenched features jolting Grunt to his feet.

"Lunatic witch whore CUNT!" Shackam drew back a boot to kick her, but she punched him between the legs and rolled to a corner in the hedges while he clutched his groin.

Grunt took this in as he bounded at Shackam. He swung a fist that should've put the fucker in intensive care, but it flailed straight through him.

Too enraged to feel pain for long, Shackam trapped Niamh in the corner. Grunt got between them, but Niamh didn't hide behind him. She stood beside him, shoved the vicious little creep's embroidered chest.

Shackam produced her diary, slapped her cheek with it. She slapped him back harder. Grunt shoved his face at Shackam, desperate to be seen. But Shackam only glared at Niamh.

A snakish smile spread across his red cheek. He opened a page of the book and read: "Oh Animus, how poor Shackam would rip his heart out if he read these words: Just the thought of sucking him sickens me, yet I drip in anticipation of tasting you again."

He tossed it in her face.

She shoved and kicked him all at once. "Fuck off!"

He grabbed her hair again and even as she slashed claws at his face, he dragged her to the pond.

Grunt's heart dropped into his gut. He grabbed Niamh's outstretched fingers as she sought his protection, but she was left caught between the two men, yowling, as Shackam wrenched two-handed at her hair. Grunt had to let go. Niamh walloped and walloped again, but without a weapon the slight girl was no match for a man in a frenzy.

Shackam hauled her to the pond, threw her in. Climbed on top of her.

Bile rose in Grunt's throat. Powerlessness emptied him. He couldn't help her.

She needed a weapon.

He needed something that existed in both their worlds. The book was too flimsy, but--

He sprinted from the maze, across the lawn and prayed the mechanism that united them when aroused, couldn't tell pleasure from pain. For this fucked-up reason, Niamh's coughed screams and splashing behind him were as much re-assuring as gut churning. But her sudden silence almost turned him inside out.

Grunt bounded up the stairs, grabbed the branding iron, and careered out again, back across the lawns.

Silence greeted him at the centre of the maze.

Shackam, stooped, arms thrust into the water. Still water.

Grunt howled and threw himself into the pond. Shackam, startled by the sudden splash bore down harder on his mistress. Niamh stared from under the surface, eyes wide, hair floating around her face.

Sobs wrenched Grunt's chest. On instinct, he grabbed her and snatched her from the water, her body barging Shackam aside. The man staggered across the pavement, eyes wide at what must've looked like Niamh rising into the air from her watery grave. Grunt cursed his blind panic for not doing this before.

He shook her upside down under Shackam's astonished glare. She was profoundly limp. He laid her on the stone, tilted back her head and pulled her hair from her mouth. He breathed into her lungs, once, twice.

"You witch. You fucking witch!" Shackam charged at them. Grunt swung Niamh's leg hard across Shackam's knees, flooring him.

He dropped to her lips again, blew another breath into her, clasped her hand about the branding iron, ready to clout Shackam if he came at them again. But she was still limp.

"Satan's whore!" Shackam scrabbled across the paving, livid, drooling. He reached through Grunt to pound Niamh's body like a maddened ape. "Die you fucking cunt! Fucking die!"

Niamh's eyes flicked open. She spewed water. Shackam pummelled on. Even deathly pale, she scratched and spat.

Grunt gathered her up under her arms to carry her to safety. Shackam stumbled back as she seemed to take to the air.

Niamh raised the branding iron in her fist.

She swiped it across her abuser's cheek. Shackam collapsed to one knee, clutching his face.

Niamh dissolved in Grunt's grip. She dropped to her feet, screeching like a hell-cat, raising the branding iron again.

Shackam's outline rose from its knees, his face bloodied, savage.

He leapt at her.

Then they were gone.

#

Grunt curled foetal on the stone, sobbing, naked, shuddering right from his bones. He fought the urge to throw up.

With hopeless desperation he tugged at his cock, trying to get hard, picturing Niamh's impossible body, her lust for life. The images just crumpled him. He tested anger instead; roared, smashed his fist into stone. But he stayed alone. Maybe Niamh didn't share his rage. If so, why? Had she calmed? Was she dead?

Of course she was fucking dead. She was 160 years old.

He clawed his scalp. How the fuck did this work? Why was he being tortured?

Wait.

The diary. The last page. Was that written before or after this afternoon?

He backtracked through the maze in search of his phone.

He found his clothes on the bench where he'd licked Niamh and where they'd stripped. A memory too painful to bear. He rifled through the pile, no phone.

He retraced his steps to the previous bench, where she'd clasped his finger inside her, then sucked it clean. And where the phone lay, its screen cracked.

He thumbed it on.

Fucksake.

No battery.

#

2pm, Wednesday 22nd June 1881

My love, forgive my handwriting, my fingers shake so. But I have to write, you must be sick with worry.

Thank you thank you thank you. I couldn't have killed him on my own.

Your quick thinking saved my life. Bringing me the branding iron. It rid me of my demon once and for all. Our demon.

It took but two more blows to finish him, and when I'm done here I'll bury him in a hole I prepared last week for espalier apple trees. He tells no-one he visits me, to protect his reputation, so no-one knows he's even here.

I think our incomplete lovemaking left you hooked in me, because when I was underwater, and the light fading, a great calm came over me and I was on your back again. Did you feel me? I rode you across the lawns, kicked my heels at your sides, urged you faster.

What a world.

Oh but I'm a saucy type and no mistake. For even after all that happened this afternoon, our sex was so sweet, so hot, and so unfinished, it's embers still burn in me. They could easily be puffed back into life. Perhaps you don't feel the same just yet. I'm still alone. So clearly not.

For now, just know that I love--

"Holy-mother-of-fucking-Christ!"

Grunt snorted as Niamh dropped her pen, splattering ink over the page, desk and his erection, which he'd poised proudly beside her diary.

She smacked his bare arse, hooted. Then rolled the blotter up his ink-spotted cock.

He'd returned to the house, and his battery pack, to read her diary. Already half hard from relief that she was safe, an email response from Carboys and Carboys shot him rigid. He quickly penned a note, hid in the ensuite, and waited. Cock-in-hand.

With an infectious, dirty chuckle, Niamh flicked her tongue at the blue dots on Grunt's dick, and scrubbed them with the pad of her thumb. He tipped up her chin and kissed her. She was still naked. He ran his fingers through her damp, tangled hair, his fingertips searching her scalp for cuts and bruises.

"Don't worry." She kissed his palm. "We're made of sturdy stuff in 1881. Not like you 2020 faery creatures with your dandy pantaloons and dainty fuckin' magic--"

He kissed her quiet, swept her up and carried her to the bed. He lay her out on her back and propped pillows under her hips. He opened her knees, gave her the letter he wrote, then proceeded to love up her cunt.

#

Niamh, we're from different worlds, but I'm yours right from my soul. I always have been, from the days I stole apples from your garden--and then ran because I thought I saw a flash of your flaming hair--to this afternoon when I thought I'd lost you forever.

When I read your last diary entry, written out of concern for me, even after what you'd been through, I vowed to always be here for you. They're going to have to drag me out of this house, then exorcise my poltergeist.

I worried some demon put us together to torture us. Shackam, maybe, wreaking vengeance from his apple tree grave. But nothing that brings two people together across decades so that they can love, could be evil. I see your Mam behind it.

Then I got a message from Carboys and Carboys. Your lawyers. They explained how you left everything to me in your will. They'd doubted I'd ever exist, then when they found me they thought you'd scare me off like all the other caretakers. They're as dumbstruck as, well, I am.

They told me your paintings are worth millions, but guess what's worth the most? The dirty little sketches made by some of history's most respected artists.

Sweetheart, I promise to tell the world who you are. I can't stand that all those fortunes have been made from your image and no-one knows you. These artists claimed their muses were wives and mistresses and no-one ever questioned how come they all look the same? Like you? You were the muse of a generation, and I'm going to tell the world.

There was one story written about you. In a local paper in 1902. I guess it kicked off the myth that scared me as a kid. It described the mysterious house where a reclusive, exhibitionist, "Red Lady" could be seen at the windows chatting to herself, hysterical, and very often screaming in the throes of passion.

Sounds like us doesn't it?

So. Put down this letter (the first of many I promise). Lie back.

And enjoy.

#

The letter fluttered to the floor.

Niamh squirmed on her man's sublime tongue for as long as she could without coming, then dragged him up to kiss him. She loved the twitch in his bunched muscle as he braced his frame over her, safe as a house, but ready to plunge her breath away. Such tender power. And in his eye, unflinching loyalty, adoration, and joy.

Grunt gazed at Niamh below him. He loved her unruly, copper tendrils spread over half the bed, and her pale body, so small, soft and mighty below him. He loved her famous, unearthly innocence, yet now, as always, she sent delicate fingers to spread her labia wide. But above all, he loved her oceanic eyes--her startled blinks, as if she'd only just realised he was really, always hers.

They sealed their lips first, then their skin, then he filled her to bursting, while she sucked him in.

The rolling wave of their ecstasy fed, and fed off, their loving shoves. It swelled across the generations, surged across their lawn, smashed in their windows and crashed into their hips, tossing them, clutched, laughing through time.