A writer inspired by his muse.

The glass, half filled with ice and dark brown liquid caught the light just right sending amber colored flashes across the room. The bottle, now three quarters empty, stood accusingly nearby, cast mostly in shadow. The electricity had been cut off again and Cat Castille sat shivering in the darkness. The power company promised that the electricity would be reconnected again by tomorrow, the earliest they could get to it. Fortunately, the royalty check for The Windfall Harvest, his last best seller, one of the few that he still received, had been enough to pay off the past due charges and the reconnection fee. I would be nice not to have to continue to steal ice from rattling machine at the Days Inn down the road.

Writing had never come easy to Cat. When it did come, it was good; and when it did not he would fall into a deep depression, only to emerge when his muse reappeared. Roy - his muse always referred to him by his given name – was a relative latecomer to the literary scene. In his previous life, Roy Castille had been a tennis pro; the name Cat was merely a catchy nom de plume suggested by his publisher that had no particular meaning. He was never very good at tennis, won a few tournaments here and there, but mostly taught others how to play. He was never rich, but he made a decent living by teaching the wives and children of wealthy New Orleanians how to hit a fuzzy yellow ball over a net. But Roy was bored, bored to death of the endless repetitive mundaneness of what his life had become. The idea of writing evolved over time, but when it crystallized, he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it before. In the haughty world of the vastly wealthy, tennis pros were not unlike hairdressers. Bored housewives and rebellious children were veritable treasure troves of information regarding the otherwise hidden scandals rife within this tight-knit community, and they were more than willing to divulge those secrets to a sympathetic ear. While Cat would never divulge the real identities of the characters within his stories, they were mostly works based entirely on fact. He had nothing to fear from the real-life counterparts to his villains and heroes, lest they be exposed as such. Their non-interference was the price they paid for his silence.

If his fans could only see him now, the great Cat Castille, a nearly destitute drunkard, living on the outside fringes of sanity in a rundown rental plopped into the middle of some seedy New Orleans suburb. Not that he would be recognizable if they did. Since his most recent book jacket photo, he had lost 30 pounds and hadn’t shaved in weeks. He looked more like he was dying of AIDS or some similarly devastating disease.

As he contemplated the wisdom of pouring himself yet another double, he heard a faint rustling from the other side of the room. As far as he knew, he was alone in the house. “Hello,” he called out in a voice that was slightly slurred. “Hello?” The only response he received was a weak, almost soundless twittering. It had to be Calli, his long lost muse had returned. “Calli? That is you, isn’t it?”

“Roooooy …,” she always called out his name in the same drawn out, sing-song voice, as if she were playing with a small child. She emerged from the shadows as if materializing from thin air. For all Cat knew, she might have. It was always the same; he never knew where she came from when she dropped in or where she went when she left. It mattered not whether the door was locked, as it was now, or left wide open; she always found her way inside. And when she did leave, it was always without a trace. He had tried to follow her once, but she had disappeared the moment the door shut behind her. Now she was back, and was about damn time.

She had last visited him over two years ago and was the inspiration behind The Windfall Harvest. Her manner of dress reflected the subject matter of the work for which she was the inspiration. For The Windfall Harvest, a story about a Louisiana farmer’s wife, widowed by the Second World War, who comes across Jean Laffite’s buried treasure as a powerful hurricane approaches, she appeared dressed as a 1950’s farm wife, complete with a cotton print dress that had seen better days, a blue gingham apron, and her mass of auburn curls tied up and covered with a faded red bandana. It was during the writing of his first novel, Our Lady of Sorrows, which covered the tortured existence of a middle-aged priest who falls in madly in love with beautiful young nun, when Calli had first entered into his life during a period of “writer’s block”. She had appeared attired as a nun, and helped him get out of his slump by feeding him impressions from the perspective of the young novice. Even in the deliberately drab garb of a 1970’s era Catholic nun, there was no hiding her inherent beauty. Slender and well proportioned with a figure any man would lust after, she otherwise seemed to be able to alter her looks across a broad range to fill whatever role she desired. Today, she was made up as a beautiful all-American working girl straight out of a 1940’s era issue of Life magazine. Attired in a burgundy wool pencil skirt and matching blazer, with a ruffled white blouse, sheer nylons and black pumps with a substantial, but elegantly tapered heel, she would have been right at home in a Bogart and Becall film. Even her hair and makeup were geared to the part she was playing, rosy pink cheeks set high over impossibly full ruby red lips, her reddish brown mane carefully done up in loose curls and backswept bangs, looking like some 1940’s era film actress.

“It’s been a long time, Calli. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“You, Roy? I could never forget you. After you’re last smashing success, I assumed it was you who had forgotten about me. I never heard you call out once for me.”

“I wasn’t sure if you would come if I did. I’m not the man I once was.” The assessment was an honest one. Once Roy had been the picture of youthful health, a full head of straw blonde hair, a hard, taut and tanned athlete capable of being a world beater, but that had been a long time ago. The years and the liquor had taken their toll. He was still reasonably handsome, but his face was now heavily lined and his hair considerably thinner and darker than it had been all those years ago. Fully dressed, his slim frame seemed to have lost little from his playing days, but underneath the clothes, much of the muscle tone had been lost, leaving him looking gaunt and frail.

“The story is really quite simple my darling. The main character is a dashing 1940’s film star, a ‘matinee idol’ they used to call them. He has joined the Army and is going off to war. By chance, the day before he is scheduled to leave, he visits a USO club and encounters a young woman who works there as an entertainer. This woman has had a long standing desire for the movie star, bordering upon obsession. She ends up making a play for the star that evening; and although he tries to resist, his will, weakened by his recent problems with heavy drinking, succumbs to her seductions. After an evening of passionate lovemaking, the woman, realizing that her newfound lover will be leaving her, likely forever, kills him in a fit of rage by suffocation as he sleeps off the drink.”

“Um, interesting concept,” he admitted, chewing on the tip of his thumb, a nervous tic he had acquired over time. “I suppose writing romance is nothing new to me. Remember Our Lady of Sorrows, our first book together?”

“Oh, but this will be much different than that, my love,” she intoned with a silkily smooth voice. She slid up behind him, wrapping her right arm around his shoulder, allowing the palm of her hand to gently caress his chest. He looked down at her long elegantly manicured nails, the glossy crimson polish gleaming dangerously in the flickering candle light. “That was then, this is now. The reader demands more. Seldom do they respond to romantic subtlety, you have to slap them in the face with raw animal passion.”

Cat was beginning to sweat. He had never hidden his desire for Calli, but she had never demonstrated any overt displays of affection. She had flirted with him from time to time, more to keep him focused on the storyline than anything else. He assumed that sex was off limits, so he had abandoned any hope of that, but now here she was clearly trying to turn him on. He had to know for sure. “Passion, eh?” he spun around suddenly to face her, grabbing her wrists violently. “Just how far are you willing to take this?”
A wicked grin spread across her face, her green eyes sparkling like burning emeralds. “Careful now,” she warned. “I can take you further than you are capable of going.”

“We’ll see about that,” he growled, rising from his chair with her arms still in his grasp. He pushed her towards the wall as she feigned resistance. He could tell from her ineffectual movements that she wasn’t really making any kind of serious effort to escape, it was more for show than anything. She let out a chirp of surprise as her spine and the back of her skull contacted the dingy drywall with a faint thud. He pressed her hands against the wall above her head and surveyed his prey. The sex was literally emanating from her every pore – but she wouldn’t make it easy for him, he could tell. One rough hand worked its way up her left thigh, its taut muscles twitching beneath the silky fabric of the stockings, the hem of her skirt riding ever higher as his arm progressed. It didn’t take him long to discover the absence of undergarments beneath her outfit.

“Well, well,” he sneered, in a nasty half-whisper, “it looks like you came prepared.”

Calli moaned as he cupped her sex, plunging a single finger into the cleft between her lips, drawing a surprised gasp. Her fingers, splayed against the wall behind her slowly tightened in to clenched fists as Cat began moving, first one, and then two digits in and around her by now soaking pussy. Clear rivulets of her juices ran down her thighs, dampening the lacy tops of her stockings as Calli began thrusting herself against the invading fingers. Cat matched her pace drawing her ever closer to climax. She drew her head back, allowing him to nibble at her neck, noticing that she smelled ever so slightly of lilacs. “Yes, yes,” she gasped as her breath grew ragged. She was on the verge when he abruptly withdrew his fingers, leaving her hanging on the brink. “Fuck you, asshole” she screeched at him, gasping for air and pushing herself away from the wall, realizing that he had been toying with her.

She quickly regained her composure. She was taken aback by Cat’s abrupt change of attitude. In the past, she had always been in control of their interactions, she had been the initiator. Of course, in the past he had always been relatively sober and stable. No telling what he was capable of in his current state.

“You need to be careful when you start something,” she hissed, “especially when you’re not sure whether or not you’re capable of finishing it.” Her face was only inches from his now, as her fingers fumbled at the buttons on his plaid flannel shirt. When she was finished, she slid the shirt from his shoulders. Now it was her turn to take control. Kneeling before him, she unbuttoned the fly on his Levis and lowered them over his hips, allowing them to pool on the floor around his ankles. His cock, already hard from anticipation, jutted out from the fly of his boxers. She took him into her mouth hungrily, her crimson lips forming a perfect “O” around the rigid shaft. Despite his relatively generous endowment, she seemed to have no trouble taking his entire length into her mouth and throat without the slightest indication of the impulse to gag. Masterfully she worked on his erection, allowing it to slide out along her tongue to the point that it nearly popped out of her mouth before catching the back of the head gently against the back of her teeth with a playful nibble, then devouring the entire length once more in a cycle that combined pleasure with just the right hint of pain. While her tongue worked its wonders on his cock, the tips of her heavily lacquered nails, gingerly stroked the loose folds of his scrotum, sending shivers up Cat’s spine. Time after time, she brought him to the very edge and then did something – he couldn’t tell exactly what – that pushed him back from the precipice. It was clear that she was repaying him for doing the same thing to her, but it was becoming excruciating – he had to cum or his was going to lose his mind. Finally, she gave him the jerk that triggered his orgasm and he waited as the stream of hot cream shot up from his balls, just as he was sure he was going to feel that blessed relief, Calli clamped down hard on the shaft of his cock with her fist, cutting off the flow and causing Cat to cry out in agony.

“Arrrgghh!” he screeched, his voice as strangled as semen pent up and building in the tubes that ran from his testicles to his penis.

“I warned you,” Calli growled in a voice that was half human, half demonic. “…and our playtime has only just begun.”

As his semen slowly drained back into his testicles, she released him from her death grip, allowing him to slump to his knees on the floor. Without warning she pushed him forward with such force that before he could get his hands out in front of him, he slammed face first into the linoleum, breaking and bloodying his nose. “Oh, Cat, I’m so sorry,” she purred seductively. “But I know how to make you feel better.”

He could barely turn his head, which was throbbing from the pain of his fractured nose, but he heard the distinct rustle of clothes being removed. The wine colored blazer soared above his head followed by the silk blouse and skirt. The message was clear; she was taunting him. Then further rustling about, but in his weakened state he was unable to turn and see what. Without warning she was on top of him, all of her weight resting on his back and pushing his chest into the floor. Something unfamiliar, massive and pendulous was between his thighs and the realization of what it was made him break into a cold sweat. She wouldn’t! As the tip of what he realized was an impossibly large strap-on phallus came in contact with his puckered anus, he was convinced she would.

With a ripping pain, the large dildo entered Cat’s ass. Though the device was smooth, it may as well have been covered with razors as it sliced through the delicate tissue of his bowels. He groaned in agony, but Calli would not relent. The pain was incredible, and he wondered why someone who supposedly cared about him would subject him to such torture. It occurred to him that he had brought this upon himself, he should not have taunted Calli – she was so much more powerful than he; but was his offense really deserving of such a brutal punishment? As her mound came into contact with his ass cheeks, he realized that she was as far in as she could go. He had really taken the whole thing into his ass and he had not died. It was still quite uncomfortable, but there was an interesting tickling sensation along the length of his prostate, almost pleasurable, but in view of the soreness he was feeling elsewhere, not nearly pleasurable enough to counteract the pain. The urge to defecate was maddening because his muscles were trying to expel the massive rubber shaft but were unable to budge it. That, in and of itself, was maddening.

Finally Calli relented pulling the sex toy back out, only to thrust it back in as it emerged from his now gaping anus. Back and forth she swayed, finding a comfortable rhythm, and Cat could only try to ride out the sodomization, whimpering and groaning at each new insult to his insides. The pain was fading somewhat, but he still had the incredible urge to poop. How did gay men, or women who enjoyed anal sex for that matter, tolerate this? He was surprised to find himself getting an erection as Calli continued to fuck his ass. Having his rapidly growing cock crushed under the weight of his own body in addition to that of Calli, gyrating wildly above him, was uncomfortable in the extreme. As Calli’s assault seemingly neared his climax, Cat realized he was nearly close to cumming himself, despite his wounds. With one final thrust, Calli managed to throw herself into a screaming climax; but the violence of the maneuver caused Cat’s impending orgasm to evaporate in a flash of agony.

Frustrated once again, Cat’s anger boiled over, screeching at Calli while trying to pick himself up from the floor.

“Oh, little man,” she snapped, “we are far from through.”

“What do you want from me,” Cat cried desperately.

“It’s not what I want,” she sneered. “Although, I deserve to take a lot more from you than you could ever give. Those of us who work for you pitiful humans do so with the knowledge that we will never be given credit for our inspiration. But we do require – and will have – respect. Those who do not give proper respect will ultimately perish. Did you ever stop to consider why so many supposedly brilliant and talented artists die so young? They blame it on their inner demons, but perhaps demons are just another term for my sisters and me.”

“Sisters,” Cat asked.

“Oh yes,” Calli cooed. “But be thankful I’m not like Euterpe. She’s quite nasty when she is spurned. She tends to arrange terrible accidents for those who fail to respect her. I, on the other hand, prefer a different path. I mean, why can’t pleasure and punishment co-exist?”

Unsteady, Cat was unable to keep his feet and fell back to the floor, rolling face up. “I … I think I need … need a doctor.”

“Nonsense, Roy,” Calli said with an unnervingly cheerful voice. “You’re a big boy, you can take it.”

She strode over to him, now totally nude, the strap-on discarded. “Are you hungry,” Calli asked with false sympathy dripping from her words. Cat thought about it. It was doubtless some kind of trick, but what could it be. He was, in fact, quite hungry. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and the alcohol which typically suppressed his hunger was now wearing off. He nodded weakly. Perhaps she would take pity on him. “Then eat this,” Calli shouted, plopping her wet cunt down square on his face.

Cat had no alternative but to follow her orders, seeing as failing to do so would inevitably kill him. He couldn’t breathe with her flesh effectively blocking out all air sources. If he could bring her off quickly, perhaps she would roll off, or at least shift her position some so he could draw a breath. Plunging his tongue into her pussy as deeply as he could, he tried desperately to satisfy her insatiable appetite. “Come on lover, fuck me with your tongue,” she cried at a volume he felt sure would be heard by the neighbors. “Shove … you’re … tongue … in … my … pussy,” she beseeched him, pausing after each word to punctuate it with a violent downward thrust. He was growing light-headed and her juices were beginning to stream down his cheeks and neck. She appeared to be getting close, but it was hard to tell. Faster and faster she rode him and her moans and gasps coming closer and closer together. As he tipped over into the void of unconsciousness, Cat thought he heard her cry out in orgasm, but it was the last thing he heard.

Cat Castille was found dead the next day by a power company technician who had come out to reconnect the electricity and had seen the nude, lifeless, body through a window. When the police showed up to investigate, they found him sprawled out on the kitchen floor with no obvious signs of injury, save for a bloody nose. The final report from the coroner had listed the cause of death as asphyxia from aspirating his own fluids, with excessive alcohol consumption as a contributing factor. The most interesting aspect of the investigation was the discovery of a completed manuscript, Cat Castille’s last work, lying in plain sight on his desk, provocatively entitled Idol Amusements.