DSP -- Story: Summoning the Muse

This story contains spanking scenes, and is not intended for minors. This is a work of fiction, and none of the characters is based on any real person, although some myths were used freely.

**three in the morning and the ideas gushing like a flood she just couldn't dam up had to get rid of it or drown three in the morning and a whiskey straight up and words glorious words finally words and her eyes droop but her mind races and god what a feeling what a bloody incredible rush who needs anti-depressants anyhow when the moon is full a witch's moon silver and singing and the words keep on coming and she cries as her favorite character suffers such a terrible fate she makes it beautiful though like that Yeats poem you know the one and she vows to keep him with her somehow**

Lisa gasped suddenly, and ran her fingers straight back through her hair, clasping them at the back of her head. She yawned as she looked down at the screen; she smiled slightly as she read.

"Not half bad," she muttered.

"NOT HALF BAD!"

She jumped and spun around in her seat.

"I'll give you 'not half bad!'"

She stared at the gray haired woman who slammed a whiskey bottle onto the nearby table and rose out of her chair to an imposing height. As the woman drew a long drag from a cigarette, Lisa looked toward the door, then back at the female Paul Bunyan, her heart thudding. The woman cackled as she flicked ashes across the carpet.

"Who the fuck are you?" demanded Lisa. "How did you get in here?"

"Same way I always get in. And curb your tongue, you ungrateful brat!"

Lisa looked at the door again. The bolt was still shut. She glanced toward the nearest window. Ridiculous! She lived on the third floor!

"You look like hell," said the woman. "Three in the morning! And the whiskey flowing! I ought to beat you silly!"

*Three in the morning and I've got a deranged woman yelling at me in my own home.*

The woman continued, "It's always the way with you people, isn't it? You…you *writers*! Astronomy, I could have had! Or comedy! We drew lots, you know. All a big game of chance. Of course, I had to go and piss off the Fates before we began, didn't I? So, I got the shortest straw! I got…you! You and your ilk!"

The woman's voice became a screech.

"Do you know how sick to death I am of writers?"

Once more, Lisa demanded, "Who are you?"

The woman threw back a gulp of whiskey and said, "I'm Calliope. I'm a Muse. But, I'll bet you never even bothered to learn my name, did you?"

"You're out of your mind," said Lisa, reaching for the phone.

She yelped as sparks flew from the phone. Calliope snickered.

"Bet you didn't know we could do that either."

"You are not a Muse! You don't even look like a Muse!"

"Oh, you were expecting some waif from a Rosetti painting? To deal with the likes of you?"

"What do you mean, 'deal with' me?"

"I mean, *writer*, that I have damn well had it with your bitching and moaning. You call for help; I come, and you ignore me!"

"I called you this morning."

"Yes, and I showed up, all ready to work! And what did you do?"

Lisa bit back a retort as she remembered.

"That's right," said the Muse. "You plopped your lazy butt down in front of the television!"

"It was a Cary Grant marathon. Besides, I certainly had no idea you were here. I didn't feel any inspiration at all until after midnight!"

"Don't you dare blame me for your woes, my girl!"

"Fine! I write better in the middle of the night! Ok with you?"

Calliope dropped her cigarette onto the floor and crushed it under a heavy boot.

"Hey! If I lose my security deposit because of that -."

"Enough, brat!"

With sudden swiftness, the Muse grasped Lisa by the wrist and, sitting again, pulled her across her lap. With the same speed, she had Lisa's jeans and panties down around her knees. A hand like hardwood landed on her bottom, stunning her more than hurting her. "You crazy bitch! Let me go!"

The hand fell again, harder this time, and again. Lisa struggled as the woman slapped her again and again, quickly, making noise like rain on a car roof during a bad storm. Above the din, she caught bits and pieces of a one-sided conversation.

"Writers…Terpsichore gets Sinatra and Elvis and Springsteen…what do I get…damn writers…oh, the words, where are the words…why has the Muse deserted me…moaning…drinking themselves to death…*writers*…!"

By the time the spanking ended, Lisa was a sobbing bundle of tears. She was pulled to her feet again and immediately reached round to rub her throbbing bottom.

"Oh, no, you don't, my girl!" said Calliope, dragging the sobbing writer back to her desk. "You wanted the Muse, you got the Muse!"

With that, she threw her into the chair and commanded, "Write!"

Lisa squirmed on the hard chair and wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. She glanced toward the glass of whiskey beside her keyboard.

"Don't even think about it," said the Muse.

The Muse took her charge's shoulders in her large hands and rubbed them, pulling Lisa back toward her, letting her hands slide down her arms, then up again, soothing tired muscles. Lisa sighed and let her eyes close shut, then she opened them again, raised her hands to the keyboard and began to type. The world disappeared again as she slid into her story, into the precious words that the Muse kneaded into her. Her breath quickened. Words, like hot fingers on her flesh. Like a ragged breath against her neck. Words. She groaned with the power of them.

Words came from her. Words spilled. Words burned. She was transported. Her hands shook with the final throes of them. She slumped in her chair.

"There's my girl," said the Muse.

Calliope chuckled softly, cooing as she helped Lisa to shut down the computer and make her way to bed.

"Now, my little writer, time to get some sleep. I'll be around tomorrow . Now that we know what method is most effective, I'd say we can get started much earlier and get you to bed at a decent hour."

Too tired to argue, too spent to care, Lisa sighed.

With a satisfied nod, the Muse left the bedroom. She pulled a list of names from her pocket and placed a checkmark next to Lisa's. Nodding again, she shoved the list back, lit another cigarette, and strolled out to greet the first rays of dawn.