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I shot up and grabbed a notebook and pen from the coffee table — an old relic from when I actually wrote music. There were still some pages free.
Bent over the table and squinting in the dim light, my cock in hand, I threw myself into a vortex of creativity. For the first time in three years, I wrote, not caring what the record label or fans would think. I wrote without wondering if the guys would like it or if anyone would care that I was pouring my soul onto the page. All I wanted was to create her, add sound to her beauty again.
I put into words the passion she stirred in me with her contempt, creating rhymes describing the pain and tenderness I experienced in her hands. Mourning her loss, celebrating her return, comparing the tender young woman who held me through the grief of losing my parents to the raging queen who bore down on me this morning.
She could have beaten me or devoured me. At that moment, I hadn’t cared. All I wanted was her touch.
I held my cock, squeezing and encouraging myself, turning myself on with the words tumbling through my pen. It felt good. It was right. Letting myself flow free, crafting something permanent from a moment that had ended too quickly.
These words needed a voice, they needed to speak. If I kept them trapped inside myself, I’d suffocate. One meeting and she had captured me. I was back in that place where all I wanted was her.
She was the one that woke this passion inside me, my true muse. I had forgotten how deeply she could touch me.
I realised early in my life that I was never the true creator. I might be the master of the rhythm and beat, but it was my role to be a channel for words completely beyond me, ones I only touched in my most intimate moments. Sparks of pure creativity that would lift me away from myself and voice my deepest desires.
It was why it was so hard to sing other people’s lyrics. The label shoved whatever sounded good at us and told us to play it like we were performing monkeys. If we were true to our art, we’d admit we had written nothing new in years and be done with it. But we were too addicted to the fame and we didn’t want to stop.
We would replay the classics for concerts, but it wasn’t the same as the fresh music that used to inspire us.
Visions welled up from inside me: scenes of dark goddesses and avenging angels, bloodthirsty women who would fuck you and kill you, women who would pull the guts from your body and use them as bondage, women who could make your life mean something with their spite.
Hours later, I sat back with a satisfied grin, dozens of pages of scribbled notes humming in my hand. For once, I felt whole. Something truly meaningful had passed through me and onto the paper.
Would the others like it? Would the fans like it? Who gave a fuck? This was me, here on the page. This was Cat. My lost love with death in her eyes.
It was all so dramatic, so extreme, and completely perfect.
I wanted to know more, to see what she held beneath her suit, how she’d changed. She could eat me alive and be done with me, ruin and desecrate me, as long as she gave me answers to the mystery that was Catherine Fischer.
I removed the covers and gave my burning body room to breathe. I looked down at my cock, raw and aching. I didn’t even want to finish myself. I wanted to save my pleasure for her.
I’d spent hours going mad, forgotten myself in the swirl of alcohol and desire. It was the most alive I’d felt in years.
I’d go back to bed. Lie down next to the woman I supposedly loved enough to marry and contemplate my existence like the poetic artist I was.
Cat
Ibowed over, moaning as he took my nipple in his mouth. He sat on the edge of the sofa, holding me, supporting me, his fingers gripping and massaging my ass, encouraging me to grind into his cock. I wanted him harder, deeper, my knees hugging his hips as I pressed closer.
Naked, our scents mingled as I rolled my hips. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer. I wanted to be buried in him, or drowning in him, or flying with him. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that he didn’t stop.
He moved his leg to support my ass as he lifted me up. I moaned, needing contact, my pussy lonely in the brief moments it took for him to fill the emptiness with his fingers. He dipped into me, testing my wetness. I arched my back, thrusting my chest forward, lifting my hips so he could fuck me deeper.
Whimpering, I spread myself, and he slipped another finger inside, working me at a steady pace.
I’d never stop wanting him. Even when his fingers and mouth tortured me to heaven, I still wanted more — to be claimed, to feel him filling me with his cock until I couldn’t breathe, let alone think.
“Please.” I choked as his fingers found the sweet spot only he knew.“More.”
He chuckled as he lifted his head, pulling me down to ravage my lips as he widened me, preparing me.
His fingers left my body, and I moaned my complaint. But I felt his hands on my hips, moving me into position, his cock nudging my pussy.
All I wanted was this.
He lowered me down, or I lowered onto him. I didn’t know. All I could feel was him pushing through my tight muscles, both of us groaning as we pressed deeper, joining, fusing. He tightened his grip on my hips. A teasing bite to my lower lip was the only warning I had before he thrust into me. I cried out his name as pleasure overwhelmed me, and I came undone in his arms.
“Max.”
