muse

The heavy heat of her sweat creates a fog around her body. Belly down, she pulls one knee to her chest as she pants for air.

It’s a short reprieve.

The next project approaches, taking her from behind, pumping vigorously. There’s no foreplay, no seduction. It isn’t required. She cranes her neck to the side, eyes pressed closed. She digs her fingernails in, pulling herself forward or pushing herself back. Suddenly the silence and stillness around her is restored. She turns to catch a glimpse of it’s back as it walks away.

There’s barely been time to look around or catch her breath when another task flips her over, takes her hard. Her chin tips up as a groan arches her neck. Her eyes roll backward, following her head. Her legs spread then envelope the task that buries itself in her. It rests, briefly in ecstasy, marinating in her juices. The stream of sweat that drips down its torso converges with the pool on her belly and cascades off her hip bone.

She’s extraordinary.

As if to make up for the lost pause, it grabs her harshly, firmly. Suddenly imbued with urgency, it takes what it wants then ends without finishing, making way for the next scheduled event or item on the agenda.

Creativity gathers her mussed hair as she hops down to clean up. She is barely standing when she is approached again, grabbed, spun, pulled over,
pushed down, then passed along. It’s all as clean as a freshly sharpened blade. They don’t care how she feels, what she likes. They just want what they want from her.

At the end of the night, alone, Creativity hums a little tune as she steps out of the shower. She runs a soft towel down her long legs. She strokes her skin as she replays the day, admiring her own handiwork. She moans happily as she settles between her blankets, luxuriously sated.
Today was a good day.
She was wanted.
She was used.
She was the desire and the desired.
She was the fulfillment and the fulfilled.