tagLoving WivesThe Muse Ch. 01

The Muse Ch. 01


She found him through the internet. He'd enjoyed a distinguished career in publishing, writing scores of articles and essays for feature magazines before joining a respected publisher with a closet division devoted to erotica, where he became editor-in-chief. Through email exchanges and a phone call she conjured an image of a refined gentleman in a big office wearing a thousand dollar suit, an image that relaxed her after realizing what she was going to do.

After setting the meeting, she went shopping for a new business suit of her own. Thinking he was a man of distinction, she took her time picking the perfect outfit, one that was refined as well as sexy. She settled on a midnight blue suit with a short pleated skirt from Saks. Almost as an afterthought, she stopped at La Perla on her way home. She parked her Mercedes out front, strolled the aisles of the lingerie store, ran her fingers over the silky camisoles and bras...all the while daydreaming about the plan that would make her husband the celebrated author she knew he deserved to be.

Her husband was not a writer by trade. He was an entrepreneur. He had opened a single tanning salon many years ago and now owned a string of salons and health clubs across three states. He had acquired a considerable amount of wealth and was fortunate to have a trusted management team running his business. At forty-one, he was semi-retired, spending his time these days writing about the sexual adventures he and his wife had shared over their ten year marriage. His two completed novels and almost all of his stories featured her as their protagonist.

From their earliest days she liked hearing of his desires and was eager to satisfy them. Doing what he asked excited her; knowing he was turned on by her willingness to please him excited her even more. By outward appearances, they were a normal, loving couple; but when he asked her to, she'd participate in whatever daring adventure his imagination would dream up. Being one who loved to write, his imagination was quite vivid.

Before going out on the town she would ask, "How do you want me dressed, baby? What are you in the mood for tonight?" Just asking the questions, with all the intrigue the answers might imply, would make her wet with anticipation.

Sometimes he'd pull a little black cocktail dress from her walk-in closet and suggest a string of pearls to accessorize it with. Sometimes he'd lay a leather miniskirt and bustier on their king-size bed and hand her nothing but thigh highs and a pair of stilettos.

Little of what he'd written had seen the light of day. For him, the enjoyment was in the writing. It was a way to remember their adventures and a way to keep her motor purring. Reading of their past exploits made her wet for future ones, a fact not lost on him.

It was she who pushed him to submit his stories to an erotica website they knew of. When he did so, the few stories he sent were well-received by tens of thousands of readers. When the accolades came, she encouraged him to peddle his two novels to publishers, though no matter how hard she pushed he never seemed interested to do so. At some point she realized she'd have to take matters into her own hands.

She looked cute in her new suit while standing on the train platform. It was obvious from the glances she received from the male commuters waiting for the train. Her short-cropped jacket had little puffed sleeves and the pleated skirt sat high on her thigh. Under the coat was a pale gold camisole from La Perla and beneath the skirt a matching pale gold thong. She wore pale gold sandals and a pretty gold anklet. Just for fun, she'd slipped on a gold toe ring before leaving the house.

After boarding the train she settled in for the half hour rumble to New York. Hoping it would relax her, she pulled one of her favorite stories from her brief case and began to read. It was a true account of a time she'd gone to a massage therapist to rid her of lower back pain. When she'd come home from her appointment she'd remarked to her husband that the masseuse had been cute and flirty with her. That was enough for her husband to set up another appointment for the following Saturday, even though she'd mentioned her pain had dissipated.

While driving her to the therapist's office the following Saturday her husband reached over the emergency break of his BMW and slipped his hand under her miniskirt. He himself was tremendously excited, and he wanted to gauge hers as well. She'd been quiet in the car, knowing what she was being sent to do, and when his fingers snaked into her thong she held his arm against her and bit her lip. He smiled when he felt how dripping wet she was. As always, they were on the same page. A few minutes later, when he turned into the masseuse's parking lot, his fingers were still priming the pump. By now she was no less nervous, but even more wet.

"I'm not sure I can go through with it, baby," she said.

"Shhhh," he countered. "You're gushing with excitement. You'll be fine."

He was always casual about these things and she loved that about him.

"You're probably right," she agreed, and put her hand on the door handle.

As she read on the train, she squirmed in the seat remembering how closely the story paralleled the reality of her visit. She'd been alone in the office with the masseuse only a few minutes, but she must have given a vibe, for she was on her knees before even a pretense of a massage. She worked him expertly, jerking him with her hand while sucking his big mushroom head into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the spongy crown, licked the tip, tasted his salty precome. Sucking him in deeper, she felt him tense. She stroked him more, suctioned her watery mouth tightly around him, got him even harder...then felt his come hit the roof of her mouth and ooze down her moany throat.

She continued sucking, cleaning him until he began to deflate. He raised her and moved her to his leather couch, ready to return the favor. Her legs parted as she lay back, one foot on the floor, the other hiked over the back of the couch as he crouched in front of her. He pulled her thong to the side, watched her wet lips yawn awake while bending his head toward her. She had shaved completely that morning, as she had before every adventure, and when he licked her smooth lips she felt an added sensation of closeness. He slurped her into his mouth like an oyster from a shell, then lapped around her briny harbor with his tongue. When he moved up to her turgid pearl he found it pulsing with lust.

He licked and nibbled and sucked it gently, making her come almost as quickly as she'd made him. As she quaked and shivered under him she held the man's head against her, then lay on the couch while the tension flooded from her body like low tide. She hoped their time was only beginning. She knew her body; she knew high tide wasn't far away.

He let her pant for only a minute before pulling her up by the arms and flopping her rag doll body over the arm of the couch. He got behind her, kicked her feet apart and fucked her so hard from behind she could hardly breathe.

She was in the masseuse's office for two hours. He used her as his own, sometimes gently, sometimes not, but always intensely. When she finally arrived home she was flushed and walking gingerly. Her bottom was burning from the firey red hand prints on it. She confided to her husband that she'd come so many times she'd lost count. Then she collapsed to her knees and sucked him while telling the story.

By the time the train pulled into Grand Central she'd finished reading the story and was melty with desire. Luckily she didn't have to think too much as the editor had arranged for a car, which she found tremendously gentlemanly of him. She looked up at the starry-skied ceiling as she moved though the terminal, her high heels echoing on the marble floor. She trotted up a flight of stairs and emptied out a side door, then walked half a city block to where he said the car would be, at the corner of 42nd Street and Vanderbilt.

A chauffeur with a driving cap tilted at a jaunty angle was leaning against the back door of a Lincoln Town Car as she approached. He tipped his cap and opened the door, then watched her new skirt ride up as she slid into the luxuriantly leathered back seat. She put her briefcase over her lap and got cozy in the seat as the car pulled from the curb. The driver glanced in the rearview several times but couldn't see her fingers moving under her briefcase.

Driving through the bustle of the city she played with herself while replaying her visit with the masseuse, and thinking of the visit just ahead of her. When the Town Car stopped in front of a 6th Avenue skyscraper she pulled her hand from her seventy-five dollar thong and relaxed against the seat panting. Rubbing her slick fingers on the soft worn leather beside her, she tilted her head up and scanned the skyscraper, wondering which office was his.

She was nervous. She was always nervous before these things. She'd been nervous the first time her husband introduced his fantasy to her, when he brought a stranger into their honeymoon suite and watched her make him come with her mouth; and she was nervous six months later when he sent her alone to the same stranger's Southampton mansion to "hostess" a poker party.

She took a deep breath and climbed from the car, wondering if the editor might be too straight-laced for this type of adventure. He seemed suave and debonair on the phone, but maybe too above board for what she had in mind.

When she entered the outer office a petite blonde with a tight top and tighter bottom directed her to a couch. She sat patiently on the couch, flipping through a hard copy anthology of erotic stories while the girl sat at a desk filing her nails. After ten minutes, the editor called and asked the receptionist to show in his guest. She straightened herself on the couch and snapped the book closed, knowing her husband should have been in it.

The blonde girl smelled of lavender as she led the way to his office, her tight blouse puckering between the button holes, making diamond shapes as she moved.

The editor met his guest at the door and led her in with an effortless flair. He had salt and pepper hair, rugged features and an athletic body draped in an Armani suit. He was almost as suave-looking as she'd imagined, which she took as a good omen. She looked beyond his stare, gazed at the book-lined shelves, noted the chrome and leather office furnishings, took in the panoramic view of the city from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk.

He commented on her dark blue suit, calling her pleated mini skirt "fetching". She smiled to herself and said a quiet thank you, then took a seat in one of two leather chairs facing his desk. She slid one leg over the other and squeezed her gummy thighs together in an effort to relieve some of her desire. He looked on and smiled, her gold toe ring dangling before him like a lure.

They were making small talk when the blonde girl entered with a tea service on a silver tray. After pouring, she left the tray on a side table and swiveled out of the room, leaving a scent of lavender in her wake.

As they sipped, he talked ebulliently of her husband's writings. This surprised her, as the editor hadn't mentioned he'd known of her husband's work in any of their correspondences. When he asked point blank if she was the muse for his stories she lowered her eyes past her sandal to the floor.

He sensed her shyness and kept questioning her. Was she the innocent bride in the Heather's Honeymoon series? The one whose husband coaxed to walk the crowded beach in see-thru lingerie? The one who let her husband bring another man into her honeymoon suite to make love to her?

She swallowed hard while keeping her eyes lowered. "I'm not sure you'd call it making love," she whispered.

Feeling himself spark to life, he took a sip of tea, his pinky extending as he held the tiny handle. Clinking the cup to its china saucer he asked about the ending of the Heather's Honeymoon series. Had her husband really sent her to hostess a men's poker party as the story suggested?

Again she swallowed, and then whispered, "Yes."

And then she began to offer details. The poker game was at a mansion in The Hamptons. She'd stayed a full weekend instead of the one night her husband had planned. There had been five men in the house, each with different needs, different desires. After several hours there, it was as if she'd gone into a trance. It all became a blur, but in the end, she'd met every need, every desire.

She raised her head and met his stare, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. She wasn't ashamed; she was nervous and excited, and hoped he wasn't disapproving. When he smiled at her she relaxed, her bald pussy pulsing against her thong.

She knew she'd do whatever it took to get her husband's novels published.

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