Page 5 of Claiming His Muse

This time, I imagine him being rougher, kissing me harder than before. I make the movements of my hand more insistent. Then, on a whim, I stick a finger inside my pussy. I can’t help the little yelp that escapes my lips. It feels incredible, but I find myself wanting more, so much more.

I add another finger, stretching myself open. While I still think I’d like way more, this is enough to satisfy me for now. As I imagine Blake’s tongue sliding along my bottom lip, I ride my hand, thrusting my hips up with reckless abandon.

My orgasm starts to build. It’s not like the sensation comes out of nowhere, but it still takes me by surprise. I feel almost animalistic with want and need for release. Blake’s face, the smell of his cologne, his deep, honey-thick voice, all fill my senses. It’s nothing more than an idea, all in my head, but it’s intoxicating.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” the fantasy encourages. “You’re so beautiful like this. You’re putting on a show just for me, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh,” I confirm to the empty room. “Just for you, Blake.”

My toes curl as I use the heel of my palm to stimulate my clit. I grind up against it, continuing to piston my fingers in and out of my pussy. Dizzy with want, I chase my release without shame. I think about putting on a performance for Blake, letting him see just how badly I want him.

In my mind, he pulls back from my mouth completely so he can watch me. Despite my shyness, that’s exactly what I want. I like his eyes on me. I love the way he looks at me. God, I wish he were here, observing me as I fall apart on his hand. It’s not even a want at this point; it’s a need.

“Oh my god,” I whimper as the muscles in my abdomen start to tighten. “Oh my god, Blake.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” my brain supplies with Blake’s voice. “Go ahead, beautiful. Cum for me. Show me how much you want me. Show me how much you like this.”

Like that, my climax grips me. It tears through my body, making my toes curl and my head fall back against the couch cushions. I feel like I can’t breathe, like the idea of Blake doing this to me has stolen all of the air from my lungs.

I keep going, rubbing and fingering myself through my orgasm. It isn’t until the stimulation starts to hurt that I take my hand away and let it rest on my chest. As I come down from the high, I find myself longing for Blake even more than I was before I started.

I realize I need to get these feelings out, so as soon as my legs start to work again, I stand up and pull up my panties. Then I grab my bag and pluck my notebook from its depths and a pen from the front pocket. Like a woman possessed, I turn to a blank page and start writing.

The first few poems I write are nothing more than a short collection of words. They act as a warm up rather than anything serious. Once I get the word-vomit out, I decide to work on something I’d be proud to show off. I don’t plan on sharing it with anyone, but maybe one day, years from now, it’ll find its way into a collection I’m confident enough to publish.

When I finish writing, I return my notebook to my bag. The words that came out were so vulnerable, so full of longing, that I’m almost embarrassed they’re my own. In an effort to distract myself, I take out my phone and text Miranda with a request to pick up chicken nuggets on her way home from work. I stand up to get my laptop. There’s an assignment that I was planning on finishing Saturday, but now that I’ll be sitting for Blake, I need to get it done before then. I don’t want there to be any reason for me to need to rush out of there. I need every second of time with Blake that I can get.

Chapter 5

Blake

It always feels like the weekend takes forever to arrive, but this weekend really took its sweet time getting here. I’m so anxious to see Jenny again that I couldn’t focus on anything else. Everything I drew or painted just ended up looking like her. Thank god none of my classes require much mental energy. I would have failed any test I was given or missed any notes I was supposed to take.

Saturday is a beautiful day, and I leave my apartment early to walk to the studio. As I’m enjoying the weather, I do my best to clear my head and get myself into painting mode. In the last couple days, I’ve decided that I’m going to give the finished piece to Jenny. I desperately want to keep it all for myself, but if things shake out how I want them to, I won’t need it. I’ll be able to look at her all I want.

When I get to the studio, there’s no one else there. I can only assume most of the students are either recovering from a night of partying or enjoying one of the first nice days of the year. I don’t blame them. If it weren’t for Jenny, I doubt that I’d be here today.

She shows up about twenty minutes after I do, wearing that whimsical dress and the ribbons in her hair. I’ve already seen her naked, so seeing her all dressed up in something she clearly loves is a treat. While she looked comfortable modeling for the anatomy class, her confidence is radiant in this outfit.

“Looking absolutely gorgeous as always,” I say by way of greeting.

“Thank you,” she says, a slight blush finding its way onto her cheeks.

“I’m just about ready to start,” I say, grabbing my pallet and a few tubes of paint. “I wanted to wait for you to get here before I started mixing my colors.”

“That makes sense,” she replies as she pulls a stool in front of me and settles in. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask. How did you get into painting? You’re really talented, so I assume you’ve been doing it for a while.”

“You assume correctly,” I say, grinning at her as I squeeze out a glob of yellow paint. “I’ve always loved art, and I realized painting was my passion when my mom got me a set of acrylics. They were cheap and streaky, but I fell in love with the medium.”

“So were you self-taught up until you got to college?”

“Kind of,” I say, grabbing a tube of red. “I took some classes at the community center and every art class my school offered, but I spent most of my free time locked in my room with a paintbrush in my hand. What about you? You’re majoring in creative writing, and you’re a poet. Did you write a lot growing up?”

“A little,” she says with a sigh. “I always thought of it as more of a hobby, though. It never really seemed like something I could turn into a career or even further my education in.”

“And now?” I prompt as I start mixing the colors for the shadows.

“Well, there are some poems I think are worthy of publishing,” she says shyly.

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