A Muse by Any Other Name Would Spell as Sweet
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While The Muse Is Away free porn video
While The Muse is Away...
By Hypatia
The noise of the forest was quite disconcerting; the jungle
of a night is a place alive. The man though seemed
untroubled by the movements around him; the passage of a
large snake, a medium size boa, which stopped to
investigate his groinal region, only produced a minor
reaction.
Through the night vision goggles, he looks down the road
towards the compound.
"They do make it so easy don't they," he whispers as he
stands up, he is dressed for dinner and despite lying on
the floor his suit is immaculate. "Only four of them
guarding a place like this."
He walks along the uneven track, to the drug lab, hidden
deep within the primeval Columbian Jungle and the jungle
seems to take on an unnatural silence. Not a sound can be
heard, until he is only yards from the entrance to the
compound, then there is a loud 'crack' as he a step on a
twig.
"Halt who goes there, friend or foe?" an accented voice
shouts out and a small man with a goatee beard and
moustache peers into the darkness.
"Foe I am afraid, I don't suppose you would consider
surrendering?" Our Hero asks. The man with the goatee
responds by reaching for the automatic weapon, slung across
his shoulder.
"Thought not," the solitary man shouts, his hand becomes a
blur of motion, there are two rapid shots and two men fall.
He dives for the limited cover offered by the gate pillar.
From inside one of the other two guards opens fire; the
machine pistol chattering away keeps our solo adventurer
pinned for a moment. He takes a deep breath as another
weapon joins in, waits for the inevitable pause in the
firing and dives to the ground firing as he moves. Two
shots ring out and there is silence, the man stands up and
walks towards the man with the goatee.
"You should have surrendered," he tells him as the man lies
dying in a pool of his own blood.
"Where is 'The Sand Martin'? Where is he hiding?" he
demands of the dying man.
"He... he..." the man starts to say when he is interrupted
by a booming voice from above. The Voice of a God destroys
the mood of the moment.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU CALL THIS CRAP?"
"Action adventure, thriller. I think... It's a bit hard to
tell," the man with the pistol answers peering into the
night sky.
"FOUR PEOPLE DEFENDING THE BIGGEST DRUGS LAB IN COLUMBIA?"
"Count yourself lucky we got four, do you realise how over
utilised primordial jungle is? I have spent all night
falling over hidden drugs labs and avoiding lost cities, we
have half the cast from 'Predator' playing around out here.
You wouldn't believe how many giant apes we have running
around this jungle." Our Hero replies accusingly.
"AH WELL, SORRY. " the voice answers uneasily at this
observation, "THERE IS ALSO YOU... WE ARE VERY DISAPPOINTED
WITH YOUR PROGRESS."
"What is this 'WE'? It must be 'The Royal We' as no one is
ever going to read this crap, just because you have all the
talent and imagination of a poorly evolved juniper bush
don't start blaming me"
"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT JUNIPER BUSHES FOR AND WHO ARE
YOU TO CRITICISE MY WRITING?"
"That is just it, I am the one person to criticise your
writing, no one ever read anything you wrote and as yet we
have the first twenty pages of seven books underway." The
man looks disgustedly into the sky, pauses for a second,
"and look at me, your one attempt at characterisation. You,
end up with a character as believable as Scooby Doo. Wooden
doesn't come into it, you could chop me up and make a boat
out of me... Damn it why do I have to make these stupid
comments all the time?"
"BECAUSE A HERO ALWAYS MAKES QUIPS AS HE KILLS THE BAD
GUYS... THINK OF JAMES BOND."
"Yes but his author could write elegant quips, you can't
even write from the same point of view most of the time.
Look at that Western you started, slipping between first
and third person so often that I was feeling seasick, no
one expects a western novel to be good but there are limits
to what a reader will put up with. But as I said that isn't
exactly a problem."
"WELL YOU AREN'T EXACTLY AN ACTION HERO BURSTING WITH
ACTION, ARE YOU?" The omnipresent voice asks with a tinge
of anger in its voice.
"Well who is to blame for that?" The hero asks scornfully.
"Last week I was 'Long John Thomas', whoring and wenching
my way across the Spanish Main. I was the pirate with the
biggest 'weapon' in the New World. I still have that
'weapon' and now I am crawling around the Columbian Jungle
in a suit. Do you realise how little protection you get
from amorous snakes when you are dressed for dinner? Thank
God the Western was your first attempt at a book, riding a
horse would be a physical impossibility at the moment."
"I AM YOUR CREATOR... YOU SHOULDN'T CRITICISE ME."
"Look I have a two pack a day cigarette habit from my
excursion into the world of Samuel Schweitzer, Jewish
Private Investigator in 1930's America. I have a drink
problem from the 'Gut Rot Whiskey' in the Old West and now
I am Harold Jones, non-smoking, non-drinking all action
hero with half the snakes in Columbia making a beeline for
my trousers. I will criticise you all I want, couldn't you
at least write me in a pack of cigarettes?"
"YES... ONE MOMENT..." The omnipresent voice answers.
"Benson and Hedges... don't even think about making them
Marlboro." The Hero says reaching into his pocket and
pulling out a battered red packet "God if there is a clich?
you just have to use it, don't you?"
"NO I DO NOT..."
"OH YES YOU DO," The Hero shouts back unwillingly "See you
have got me doing it, this is worse than being stuck in a
pantomime. I thought Hamlet had it bad working for 'Old
Bill', that bloody Dane has nothing to moan about, he
should try working within your mind."
"YOU DON'T LIKE ME DO YOU?"
"Like you... I am dressed for dinner in a dinosaur infested
jungle, with every drugged up junky with a gun after me.
What do I have to defeat the largest crime family in the
world? One pistol and a not so smart quip, for God's sake
this plot is so thin that it is falling apart, other
stories are getting in."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" The Creators Voice demands.
"Well we have two veloceraptors working their way up the
road and I just can't see where Batman fits into this
story... it is falling apart. Have you considered a
different hobby, train spotting, stamp collecting...
anything but writing?"
"BUT I LIKE WRITING."
"I know you do, it is just that you are not very good at
it, we had green bug eyed monsters in your Science Fiction
and that 'Cold War' thriller you did, The Search for Orange
September, was a rather obvious steal of a film you saw."
"I HAD THOUGHT ABOUT IT BEFORE I SAW THE FILM, IT WAS JUST
TOM CLANCY WROTE IT FIRST," The Voice protests.
"Come off it, you said the same about Saving Private Ryan
and Pearl Harbour. Everyone is stealing your ideas, aren't
they... now please explain how they are stealing them. Is
the house bugged? Perhaps Stephen Spielberg is breaking in
every Saturday night when you go down to the pub."
"THERE IS NO REASON TO BE LIKE THAT." The Voice says in a
hurt tone of voice.
"An original thought and your brain are two things that
have never been introduced, I know, I 'm the poor sod who
has to live in your brain. This idea you have about meeting
the three witches, forget it, it has been done before."
"ARE YOU SURE?"
"Yes and I am not much good at playing Scottish Royalty, I
cant do the accent." Our Hero replies. "Then again with
your lack of research I am not much good at doing
anything."
"I DO RESEARCH," comes a protesting and by now rather
irritating reply from The Creator.
"You do research do you, what about a simple one, when did
the Second World War start?"
"ERR..."
"Well I don't know, because you don't know... but I am
bloody sure it wasn't May 1938. What about ships, that was
a recent one and we actually got past chapter three. Yes,
you had the word mast right, but that bloody big stick on
the bottom of the sail I am sure isn't a member. Add to
that the many comments about the size of my enormous
'Member' and we were on dangerous ground. If you had come
back from one of your piss ups and carried on with the
story, I would have been swinging from the bottom of the
sail by my dick..."
"I DIDN'T THOUGH..." The Creator protests.
"No, only because you didn't last the week writing it, the
only reason you got past chapter three was because you
wrote shorter chapters."
"WELL WHAT DO YOU THINK I SHOULD DO?"
"What do I think you should do?" The Hero asks, "You
honestly want to know?"
"YES."
"You should sack the stupid little bint, who has got the
job as your Muse. Christ even I would be a little
suspicious of a woman with wings, who flies and goes by the
name of Tinkerbelle, when she says she is a Muse. The silly
little tart was just fed up with being typecast, she wanted
a change of scenery where her life expectancy didn't depend
on how many people believe in fairies."
A flickering light in the night sky draws our hero's eye;
something is heading towards him leaving a trail of glowing
dust behind it.
"Oh Christ, no." he says to himself.
"Who you calling a tart and a bint?" Demands the six-inch
tall woman with wings who settles on the ground before him.
"Why don't you just fly away and play with the little boys
again?"
"That's Lost Boys arsehole," she shouts at The Hero, while
kicking him in the ankle. All she succeeds in doing is
hurting her own bare foot and she hops around for a moment
or two.
"See what I mean, she didn't even get a job in the
Spielberg film, Hook. What was it Tink? Oh yes I
remember... wooden and wet was the way you were described.
Gave the job to that Roberts woman, to figure out how it
should be played."
"I had creative input I will have you know, she read Peter
Pan seven times before she decided how to play it."
"Yes but it was totally different to you..." The Hero tells
her and then turns his head back up to the heavens. "See
what I mean, she is about as inspirational as a dose of
herpes and a lot more difficult to get rid of. I do not
believe in fairies... I do not believe in fairies... I do
not believe in fairies. Still here? There is just no
killing you is there?"
"You beast," Tinkerbelle screams at him and kicks him with
her other foot, it has the same affect as her earlier kick
and she hops around from foot to foot as the hero laughs at
her misfortune.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" The creator demands.
"He is always like this, he is a beast," Tinkerbelle shouts
now flapping hard, so her bruised feet are off the ground.
"Me and the Magical Moth Woman here have worked together
before." The Hero admits.
"WORKED TOGETHER BEFORE?"
"Yes a long time ago, though." The Hero replies.
"Yes Simon, you would know how long a dose of herpes takes
to get rid of... wouldn't you." Tinkerbelle says.
"SIMON?"
"Yes Simon The Summoner, we both worked with Chaucer, I was
a Duchess," she says with a grin, "but he felt he was a
little hard done by there."
"He was a bastard that man, I wasn't just ugly or
unpleasant..." he shudders for a moment as the memories
return. "At least I was someone, however diseased. What are
you now, a Barbie doll with wings?"
"One more word out of you and you are going to find out
just how Shakespearian this Barbie Doll can get on you. I
learnt a lot working with Billy Boy."
"Working with Billy Boy?" Simon says with astonishment in
his voice. "You call that working with The Great Bard,
decrepit crone two, in one of them, almost a Witch without
any lines in Macbeth and not forgetting my all time
favourite what gave you your present role... fourth fairy
on the right in a Midsummer Nights Dream."
"At least I worked with him," Tinkerbelle says smugly,
"since Chaucer, you have been working with every fourth
rate hack who picked up a quill. How many trees have died
to show your adventures since you left Chaucer?"
"I live in the modern world, word-processors, computers,
keyboards and the internet."
"Ah yes the internet, done less for Literature than Jackie
Collins and that is giving it the benefit of the doubt."
"Look who's talking, you started off in your present role
as a bedtime story. Anyway, it is one thing to be a
literary snob while if your name is Titania or Lady Macbeth
it is a different matter when you are basically a walking
supply of fairy dust," Simon tells her. He looks down the
road, headlights can be seen approaching and they both step
back, off the road. A green Land Rover goes roaring into
the compound, there is a moment's silence after it has
gone.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS..." A loud boom that is almost at the
lower limit of human hearing silences the Creators voice.
There is a second and the ground shakes, the forest is
silent in-between the booms and silent after until a third
and a fourth break the silence.
"What projects are going on here at the moment?"
Tinkerbelle asks with a worried tone of voice.
"Projects, we are not talking projects here, half the world
seems to have taken up writing and set it in the Jungle at
the moment."
"Well there you go, just what I was saying... give them an
Internet link and they are Harold Robbins all of a sudden."
Another boom silences her.
"Keep very, very still." Simon says as a huge dark shape
can be seen approaching along the road.
"Not on your Nellie, why do you think The Author gave me
wings... to stand around while bloody big things come
bearing down on me. No chance I'm heading for the trees..."
Tinkerbelle tells him.
A hand, almost faster than the eye can see, shoots out and
grabs the little fairy.
"Listen short stuff, you gave him the ideas that got me
into this mess, so you can see them through."
The figure is closer now it is unmistakably tyrannosaurus
like in appearance; it stops in front of the still figure
of the man and bends its huge head down, examining the
immobile figure from all angles. Finally it brings its nose
only inches from his, displays a mouthful of the most
deadly teeth ever designed and snorts loudly.
"It is you Simon, darling, what ever have you been doing
with yourself." The Tyrannosaurus asks in an obviously
upper class English and female voice.
"Do I know you?" Simon asks.
"Come off it darling, in the first drafts of Lady
Chatterley's Lover, you saw more of me that anyone else, it
was only your insistence that it was a dead end job that
kept you out of the final manuscript. You must recognise
me..."
"Godiva?" The Hero asks with a smile on his face.
"The one and only,"
"WAIT A MOMENT, YOU SAID LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER..." The
author protests.
"On speaking terms with him upstairs are we, that's getting
a little familiar for you. Does the Muse know? You know how
funny those Greek girls can get." Godiva says.
"Well it is like this, this is not a Greek job," The Hero
replies.
"My God, Divine Inspiration, you have moved up in the
world."
"Not exactly," he says and opens his hand releasing
Tinkerbelle.
"You are a bastard aren't you?" She shouts at him as she
tumbles to the floor. "These wings are precision
instruments and you go messing them up with your big clumsy
hands. Do you realise how much time I spend everyday on
these wings?"
"Tinkerbelle!" The Tyrannosaurus says happily at the
emergence of the little woman. "What brings you here."
"This is her doing, the fairy decided on a change of
career..."
"WHY ARE YOU CALLING THE DINOSAUR, GODIVA?" The Author asks
petulantly.
"What's the story with him upstairs?" Godiva asks.
"Don't worry he is a loner who likes the occasional drink
too many, perfect alien abduction material as no one would
believe him in a million years. As for this, he will put it
down to lack of sleep." The Hero explains.
"Well Hon, its like this." Godiva says looking at the
heavens, "I play the posh bird who gets her kit off,
Godiva, Chatterley, Emmanuelle... that's my speciality,
posh woman with no clothes."
"POSH BIRD? WHY HAVE YOU STARTED TALKING LIKE THAT AND WHY
ARE YOU A DINOSAUR NOW?"
"I am a professional dear, I speak to my audience in words
they understand, a few years ago I did a few weeks as a dog
you should have seen Spot run."
"ISN'T SPOT A MALE DOGS NAME?"
"Yes but you try drawing a male dog running without
displaying all his tackle. See Spot run, see Spot get
excited, see spot hump Jane's leg and see spot lick his
balls..." Godiva explains. "The kids would have loved it
but there would have been an uproar from the parents."
"WHY ARE YOU A DINOSAUR AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?"
"Well I am a dinosaur because I didn't read the contract
and trusted my agent..."
"Agent?" Tinkerbelle asks urgently. "Where did you find an
agent?"
"Forget it Hon, it was a fiddle. A Scandinavian hunk came
offering to be my agent if I would be nice to him, not that
he needed to offer the agent part, I would have been better
than nice. I would have been bad for him, for nothing."
Godiva says with a long sigh. "Anyway this guy Loki said he
had a sweet job lined up for me, working with a guy who
would become a big name, guaranteed film work, the lot. It
also involved no clothes and being royalty, this time I
would even have Rex after my name. This is what I got."
"WHY ARE YOU HERE THOUGH, THAT STORY HAS BEEN WRITTEN?"
"Oh that part is easy dear, we are haunting his dreams,
showing him how it could have been done better."
"Any work out of this Dreamland stuff?" The Hero asks.
"Two sequels in the films."
"Not bad at all," Tinkerbelle says.
"Now," Godiva says, "tell me what is going on here, its not
Divine Inspiration, its not a Greek Operation and unless he
with the keyboard, is a hell of a lot sicker than I can
believe, it is not a masturbatory fantasy, so Eros isn't
involved... so what is going on?"
"Well Tinkerbelle here decided to freelance as a Muse."
Simon tells her.
"Tink, you know how the Muses get, God if you are lucky
they will just bring in their father, he enforces all their
contracts."
"I can cope with Zeus," Tinkerbelle says defiantly, "he is
a man, he thinks with his dick. Flash him a bit of cleavage
and he is a sweetie."
"What are you going to do if they decide to sort you out
themselves, there are worse things than not working. You
could spend the next hundred years as the unknown security
officer in Star Trek Fanfiction."
"That's a man's job, I am safe." Tinkerbelle replies.
"Get in touch with the times Tink, they have killed off
female security officers and had a female captain, the
world is changing and if you get tied into Internet Fan
Fiction, you are there for years." Godiva tells her.
"The Winged Avenger here doesn't believe in the
Internet..." Simon says with scorn.
"I do believe, I do believe." Tinkerbelle protests, "I just
can't see the point of it."
"Look you sell a thousand books in a week you are a success
in paper, you can have a thousand readers a day on The Net.
It is a powerful place, too many characters start with a
new author full of good intentions and next thing they are
molesting donkeys shouting 'Give it to me big boy'..."
Godiva looks around for a moment or two. "I better get back
to work... err, which way did they go?"
"The green Land Rover, into there," Simon points into the
compound.
"Thanks Hon, don't let the bloody authors, torment you too
much." She says and turns towards the compound and roars.
"Wait for me you miserable bastards."
"THAT'S MY DRUG LAB," The Author says sadly as the huge
beast goes crashing into the compound.
"Yes I know and it is going to give a wonderful new angle,
the stoned T-Rex."
"STONED IN THE STONE AGE?"
"Something like that, you just keep trying... you'll get
there." Simon says patronisingly. "Though I wouldn't like
to work with her tomorrow when she wakes up."
"She's a Tart," Tinkerbelle says scathingly.
"So speaks the eternal virgin, that's why you accepted the
job with the little boys, it was safely non-sexual."
"That's The Lost Boys, I'm warning you..."
"What are you going to do about it, sprinkle me with fairy
dust?"
"One more word out of you Simon and you will be very
sorry," Tinkerbelle tells him.
"Peter, oh Peter, come and save me from the nasty man."
Simon cries out in a falsetto voice, Tinkerbelle marches
towards him hands on her hips.
"Oh please don't kick me in the ankle again... I'm begging
you." He says laughing.
"You asked for it," Tinkerbelle says and quick as a flash
she is under his trouser leg and a bulge can be seen moving
upwards.
"What the bloody hell do you think you are up to?" Simon
demands while trying unsuccessfully to grab at the rapidly
moving figure of the fairy.
"Aieee, the little bitch is biting!" Simon screams while
still trying to grab the bulge in his trousers, Tinkerbelle
is too quick though.
"Jesus stop it woman!" he shouts and sits down on the floor
to stop any rearwards attacks on his person.
"Call me names would you, this will teach you to take the
piss out of fairies," comes the muffled response from
Simon's trousers. Simon's answer is more a primal scream
than anything that might be intelligible.
"STOP IT, I THINK I AM GETTING AN IDEA." The Authors voice
booms.
"You can't be, I'm down here," comes from Simon's trousers.
Simon just moans.
Around them, the Primal Columbian Jungle shivers and fades.
An arid mountainous landscape replaces it, it is now
daylight and high on the peak of a nearby mountain can be
seen a great temple, with huge classical columns.
"Oh boy, are you in the shit now dust-ball." Simon shouts.
"No, I think both of you are in the shit personally," comes
a voice from the high temple. A female figure can be seen
getting closer and closer without apparently moving.
"Oh shit," says Simon, the bulge in his trousers is rapidly
descending towards his ankle.
"Calliope?" Tinkerbelle asks, her head appearing from the
bottom of Simon's trouser leg.
"Who else would you be expecting?" the woman asks standing
with her hands on her hips, in a long flowing gown, that
despite being all covering, leaves very little to the
imagination.
"Err... hello Calliope, what brings you here?" Tinkerbelle
asks.
"Well it is like this, I had an ear bending off Thalia,
over a double booking on the jungle, with one of my
clients. But of course I tell her that she must be mistaken
because I am leaving that client a tortured soul until
Stephen King retires, then I can bring him in centre
stage." Calliope says glairing at the two of them.
"Err, yes, well, I was going to have a word with you,"
Tinkerbelle says while trying to wish a hole into existence
beneath her feet.
"I told her, I did," Simon says standing up and rearranging
himself carefully.
"Then when Thalia insists that my next big thing already
has jungle booked, I came over to prove her wrong and what
do I find? You two fighting, other stories involved and a
direct conversation going on between character and author,
without the presence or permission of a Muse, do you know
what you two have done?"
"No Calliope," Simon and Tinkerbelle mumble together.
"You two have just ruined the biggest selling books, for
four of the next seven years." She shouts.
"But he was going nowhere..." Tinkerbelle protests.
"And he talked to me first." Simon whines.
"He was going nowhere because, to write a soul must be
tortured first, so that it falls in thrall to the Muse. The
bigger the book and success that comes with the book, the
longer the suffering that must be endured first. You should
see what J.K. Rowling went through before I gave her Harry
Potter. But as for you Simon, talking to the Author just
because he spoke to you... haven't enough authors pleaded
with you over the years for you to know better?"
"I WILL WRITE GOOD BOOKS?" The voice of the author asks.
"You would have, now though we have a problem, these two
idiots have ruined everything."
"THAT ISN'T FAIR..."
"If I can get you in print regularly, a decent living and
renowned within your own field will that do you?"
"I SUPPOSE SO..." The Author replies reluctantly.
"It is the only option you have, so listen to me," Calliope
says and turns back to Simon and Tinkerbelle. "You two wait
right here."
Calliope disappears, as does the temple on the mountaintop,
the rest of the landscape remains the same though.
"What do you think she has got planned?" Tinkerbelle asks
urgently.
"The gods only know, or the daughters of the gods more
precisely." Simon replies.
Suddenly Tinkerbelle's body begins to glow and grow larger,
as it grows her wings and clothes dissipate into nothing.
Her once slender frame designed for flight has changed
proportion, grossly exaggerated in the bust and slightly
wider in the hips.
"Oh God, what have you done to me," Tink cries out, trying
to cover as much of herself with her hands as possible,
from Simon's leering gaze.
"I like this already," Simon says with an evil chuckle.
"What's the name of this story?"
"Athenian Love Slaves," comes the voice of Calliope,
Simon's body begins to glow and change also, growing
smaller, the clothes vanishing to nothing.
"Lesbian Athenian Love Slaves," Calliope says.
"Oh God no..." Simon pleads but already it is too late her
voice is now the rich lilting tones of a woman and the
breasts, that are already large, are growing to rival
Tinkerbelle's. He reaches down between his legs but already
it is too late, the object of many snakes affection has
already gone.
The two shocked women stand looking at each other they are
identical twins. Overly large breasts defy gravity, tipped
by large dark nipples. The hair almost down to their firm
buttocks is long, straight and black, matching the neatly
trimmed, inverted black vee between their thighs and those
thighs are on legs that never seem to end. The faces are a
classical Greek beauty with a pale, almost milk like skin,
without a blemish or flaw.
"Come on you two, we haven't got all day," Calliope's voice
tells them firmly and the two naked women embrace
passionately.
"Oh God no," says Tinkerbelle.
"This might not be too bad." Simon replies with a sweet
smile as they kiss.
"Eayore." the donkey agrees.
The twins shouted as one "What the Fuc..."
The End
Liesl
- 23.06.2020
- 12
- 0
