The Muse's Undoing

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: re: notice of retirement

It’s never too late, Fisch. I can’t wait to see you. Get home safe and I’ll make sure Vaughn knows what an amazing dad he has every chance I get. See you soon. Love, Matty.

6

MATTHEW

Valentine is stunning as she sleeps.

The concept of muses is as old as art itself. A muse can be anything that inspires. A place. A memory. A religion. A person. For me, today, she’s the one.

I met Valentine on Tinder before Christmas. It’s been nearly three weeks since she swiped right on me, and two since I convinced her she was safe with me. I don’t blame her for being guarded or mistrustful. She’s had more than her fair share of terrible—even terrifying experiences with men.

I’m shamelessly obsessed with her. If I could chain her to my bed, I might. Many of the sketches I’ve made reflect that—the level of intense need I feel to keep her nearby—available to satisfy any urge or whim of mine, even if it’s as simple as this—the gift of watching her sleep.

She’s perfect. Her beauty and her pliancy call to all the parts of me that make me examine myself, my abilities, my need. My cock stirs as she shifts onto her back and mindlessly runs a hand across her concave stomach. Her pale blonde hair catches in her lashes, and her full lips part slightly, no remnants of the glitter lipstick she wore last night remain.

I took care of that within moments of laying eyes on her.

I want to touch her so badly when she’s like this, touch her body to sweeten her dreams. Explore every inch of her milky-white skin with my mouth where I feel things almost as intensely as I do with my cock.

“You’re staring,” she whispers.

“Can’t help it,” I admit, charcoal lines taking shape on the page of my open sketch book as the fantasy threatens to break apart. I keep it alive in the drawing.

“Mmm…” The hand on her belly moves down, beneath the sheet to adjust her cock, a sign of her arousal she has mixed feelings about.

I’m clear on my feelings about it, though. Salivating, I lick my lips and swallow, attempting to hide how blatantly turned on I am. “Valentine…”

“You want to play with it?” she asks sleepily.

Always.

Furiously sketching, I say. “If you’ll let me.”

“I like how you play with me. Should I stay still?”

“If you don’t mind.”

She plays the muse role well, flattered by it. Her work as a dancer makes her no stranger to people ogling her. The way she bends her back is art, pure and unfiltered.

“Are you cold? You mind taking off the sheet?” I ask.

“Since you asked nicely,” she murmurs, keeping her eyes closed, but pushing down the sheet just enough to let me see her pubic bone.

“Hmm… Want me to use my imagination?”

“Can you use it to give me a slit with lips?”

“That’s not you,” I say gently. “And you’re perfect.”

Her cheeks flush. “Will you marry me?”

I grin, but remain silent, continuing to sketch the lines of her body, even the parts she sometimes wishes weren’t there. But I wouldn’t have her any other way.