Inspiration Strikes At Night

The Writer sat at his laptop and keyed-in the title of his newest erotic short story. This time instead of fiction, he would write an exposé of his true sex life. He would expose it as truly vanilla, plain, and boringly ordinary. During this latest entry of his collection of semi-steamy works, he would confess that all his stories were lies and falsehoods. They were pure poppycock perpetrated for the amusement of others with the sole intent of perhaps feeling not alone in the Universe. This is a common situation for older male writers.

As he began another paragraph, two dainty hands squeezed his shoulders and smoothed down his chest and stomach. Soon, two luscious feeling lips were nibbling at his left earlobe. Her perfume gave her away as she used her tongue to trace the Helix and the Antihelix of his exterior ear. When she traced deeper inside toward the Concha with the tip of her tongue, she exhaled a hot breath sending a reverberation chill down his neck that also hardened his left nipple. How does that happen?

"Wait!" He craned his neck. "Hey! Why... HOW are YOU here? Didn't I marry you off to a brave and smart young lawyer in my second novel? You're a figment of my imagination. I also happen to be a little in love with most of my fictional female characters. However, I think I loved you the most. Perhaps you remind me of someone from my past."

Without words, her nimble fingers slowly unbuttoned his plaid, flannel shirt and rubbed his chest and scratched her fingernails through his minimal chest hair. Her kisses along his neck were soft, but he could feel the suction. More goosebumps appeared. His nipple tensed harder.

"Beth ... Elizabeth ... please. I am trying to write here. Can we do this later? You know my inspirations come in flashes and they don't last long unless I get them into my laptop while the images are fresh in my mind."

Quietly and efficiently, she slid the shirt fabric off my shoulders. Leaning into me, I could now feel the hardened points of her breasts as she coddled the back of my neck. She now used her teeth to nibble my ear and neck as her insistence that I pay attention to her increased.

"Beth, honey, I've already written you for another man. I assumed you two were happy together. I took all the obstacles out of the way so that you could be happy ever after. What are you doing to me here ... and why?"

There could be no response from a woman that didn't exist -- ever -- until he created her and put her on paper. He created her so well, that a real woman like her would be totally out of reach for this writer. After all, in his next novel, Beth would be inheriting a fortune when she discovers that her real father had adopted her out to the man that saved his life in the war. He financially supported her all these years because in his world, since his wife died, people in those positions didn't raise their own children. He didn't want that for Beth. She was also too many decades too young for the writer.

By this time, the writer found himself with his pants unbuckled. His fingers were locked onto the home row of the keyboard. His index fingers nervously stroked the raised bump that indicated the F and J keys. His thought processes were fading. His ideas for this story were slipping away. He closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. He let his head drop backward. He opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.

He felt a warm, soft kiss on his cheek. He rotated his face hoping to feel Beth's lips on his. He pushed his lips forward but only kissed the air.

Slowly, he opened his eyes and snapped out of his delusion only to find himself exactly as he was. One hand on the keyboard and one hand on his sweating glass of Scotch on the rocks sitting nearby. He raised it to his lips and drained the glass. "Ah. Good stuff."

That's how inspiration hits sometimes. Hurriedly, he keyed-in the scene and clicked SAVE AS "Inspiration Strikes". It was one of many in his IDEAS folder. It would be easy to replace the name 'Beth' to another character some other day.

The night was chilled. The fireplace was lit.

[word count 750]