Tormented by My Muse (750 words)

It was well past midnight when she came, though I was indeed weak and weary, exhausted by the struggle of putting metaphorical pen to digital paper.

"Mistress!" I rejoiced. "Inspire me once more and I will be your eternal slave."

She was a fetishist's wet dream. a goddess in skintight leather and shining latex. In silent disdain, she surveyed my disorderly room. The tepid tea in its cup. The infinitely patient cursor on its field of pristine snow. The window showing the sky lightening to the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

"And what good is a slave who never publishes?"

Long frustration made me reckless. My lips betrayed me. "What good is a barren muse?"

Rage twisted her fair countenance. With two strokes of her hand she answered my insolence. Before my cheeks could even redden, she seized me by the ear and threw me headlong to the floor at her feet.

"Barren? Ingrate. How many thousands of words have you got bottled up in your 'drafts'?"

"They need revision! They are wines aging in the cask."

"They are anchovies putrefying in the barrel. Are you writing stories or making fish sauce?"

"If only I had a quick stroker to clear my mind," I begged. "Something simple, something easy."

"You want a stroker? Strip, little boy, and I'll give you a stroker."

In my heart, hope reared its foolish head. No sooner had I fallen back to my knees before her, nude, than the words unfurled in my mind: "Nice shoes," she shouted over the music. "Want to fuck?"

"An intriguing twist, Mistress, to have a woman speak these tired words." I coughed. "Only, you've given me that one already."

She drove my head to the ground, until the floorboards flattened one cheek and her heel dug deep into the other. Her voice was the calm before the storm. "And?"

"I wrote twelve thousand words overnight. It was wonderfully mindless smut with a straightforwardly optimistic ending. My beta readers agreed the first draft was publishable."

A flap of leather caressed my upturned bottom. "And?"

"Well, that stroker was such a wellspring of ideas. I started a second chapter, Her Big Black Cuck, about a powerfully-built black man tired of being pigeonholed as the bull. It would have been a genre-savvy exploration of the racial dynamics in the Loving Wives category."

Her crop crept between my thighs, an unwelcome intimacy that sent shivers along my prostrate form. "And?"

I swallowed hard. "Well, I'm still working---"

Three brutal strokes of her crop cut short those feeble excuses. Three shrill shrieks escaped my lips.

They were brave, stoic shrieks, mind you.

"A genre-savvy. exploration. of racial. dynamics. in the. Loving. Wives. category?" Her crop beat a savage counterpoint to her voice. "The only. people. reading. your. stories. right. handed. are. the. lefties!"

She stood over me, panting. I cowered before her well-deserved wrath.

"Have I made my point?"

"Yes, Mistress! I'll publish a story today! Today!"

"Twenty-four hours, little boy. Or you'll wish it was only a crop, and only on your ass."

"Mistress is merciful!"

"Remember, this is all in your head. The laws of man hold no sway. Nor those of physics. The only limits here are those of your own filthy imagination."

I shuddered, recalling the nightmarish fever dreams that passed for erotica in some parts of the internet. Oh, would that those authors had provided content warnings!

"I will publish tonight," I said firmly.

"Good boy. See that you do." She lifted her foot from my cheek and I worked my aching jaw in relief. "Well, roll over. I'll leave you something to remember me by." She settled herself by my hip and reached for my limp, terrified member.

I braced myself for a rough, dry wank, but her latex-gloved hand was gentle and mysteriously slick.

I couldn't help asking. "Where did this lube come from?"

"You're getting a hand job from a figment of your imagination and you wonder where I got the lube?"

"Yes, Mistress. I mean, no, Mistress. I mean---"

She silenced me with one heel in my mouth and another on my nipple. I groaned in pleasure and pain. Who could withstand that simultaneous assault, hand and foot, heaven and hell? All too soon, a telltale spasm presaged my climax...

She released me. She stood. With one swift kick, she parted my legs. With another, she brought my surging pleasure to a retching halt. "Silly boy," she cooed. "Orgasms are for authors."

How many allusions can you spot?

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