The Beauty of a Muse

My experience with muses is limited to a single one and it is rather recent; only since the last week of November 2020. It has been just over three years since my life changed drastically again, from enough already to I cannot get enough. This case study is thus limited, but it could serve as an example of what to expect if you get deeply involved with a muse. It took me over fifty years to finally meet one, but she was so worth the wait.

Where do I begin? It is always a problem when I feel the need to describe her. She is just perfect from top to bottom and from bottom to top. And I can also begin in the middle, at her cutest navel, and it would not matter at all. I would not change anything about her even if I could. I even love her few imperfections since they are also part of her perfection. I could not even name her imperfections because I do not see them. I am sure that they exist, but I am clueless as to what they could be.

Her short dark hair promised to be soft against my skin, especially my chest where she liked to put her head before and after we kissed. Her cute little ears liked to listen to my heart since it emulated hers, as together they beat, Je t’aime, Je t’aime, Je t’aime (I love you, I love you, I love you), incessantly. Her forehead hid a beautiful bilingual brain. I am discounting the third language that she spoke, choosing only the two that we shared. Her muse’s nose could smell a red rose from half a mile and even a kilometre. Its size fit her face like an evening glove. I loved to kiss her chin and all around her neck. Her skin was always sweet. Both her eyes and her mouth need at least a paragraph each.

If I had to choose the part that I fell in love with first, it would surely be her face, with her loving eyes and her little mouth. If the eyes are a mirror to the soul, her soulful eyes are a mirror to mine. I see it in them. She is my soul’s keeper. I feel soulless when I do not see them for more than a day. Her eyes emanate love and I feel it gently piercing my chest, looking for my heart, which is already flooded by everything about her. When she closes her eyes, I close mine, as if afraid I will not survive without looking at them. Her eyes are always loving, and sometimes, I feel a need for my love to make them shine, although they already outdo any next day’s sunshine.

Her mouth makes me murmur more mentions of her manifold magnificence. And this is while it is kindly closed and with love. I kiss her all the time to feel her mouth. When she opens it, I can finally feel its passionate persistence as she gives me her tongue. I sometimes wonder if kissing her all day would have been enough to adore her forever without ever going further. But I remember her other enchanting parts and cannot dismiss them, as they become crucial to both my mental and physical survival. Her mouth is so special and rare that even her teeth taste her love, and at one point while kissing her, I felt the happiest I had ever been. Pure ecstasy requiring an x, as suggested by J.D. Arms. I sometimes feel as if I could live there in that kiss, sleep there, adored by her lips. I always look at her eyes to know if I can go on since I would not be able to stop. Luckily, she knows and she lets me kiss her until my lips become numb. But I always care to keep hers in extasy.

Her feet are steadily becoming a frequent retreat. I can start with them or end with them. It all depends on her eyes again, unless she actually says it, and she did once when she felt that I wanted to hear it.

“M, my love. This time, I want you to start with my toes.”

I was frozen for a second or two before being at her feet. I sometimes think that she only pretends to like it when I am licking her toes because she knows that I like it, pretending each toe was a goddess. I love her toes and I tell them so, from baby to beautiful. And her feet rubbing against me at several areas, including a prickly place, had become another experience that I could never forget. She likes to put her feet against my back and rub it gently from the tailbone to the neck, massaging my aching spine, giving it some love. She is the only woman who has ever done that to me.

Her stomach is a resting place where I can listen to her rhapsody in red and blue. I love to kiss her navel; the place where she got her freedom. Freedom to choose, but only based on true love. Love has a world of its own. It does not follow the same norms. The carnal desire for the other overpowers every other need. Love is pure pleasure with a lot of pain. It sounds like a contradiction but it is not. I am living it. It is exactly like that. Pure pleasure and pain like hell. But they do not cancel each other because there is more love than pain. It is when their ratios are reversed that pain begins to cancel love. What a useless thought! There is no pain in true love. It is love overflowing, and the heart suffocating, pumping more and more love. The pain is there, but it could be regarded as good, and it tends to join the flow of constant love. It sounds mystical but it is not.

Her back is a small heaven. I like to kiss and lick it along the spine and then sideways following the lines of her hard love. Resting my head on it, I find myself between two marvels. On one side, the back of her head where I can see one side of the face that I always crave, and on the other side, her ass. Those full-of-life hills with a narrow valley leading to two heavens, although one is more controversial in some minds. My head feels warmth on her back. I can feel her frame vibrate to our common oscillation. I often feel serene. I can even write words on her back with imaginary ink, such as, Thank you for your pussy, or, You are the one. I could even quote Shakespeare, but most of the good words are serious. To Be or Not to Be is a bit risky.

There are other parts, of course. But those are private and thus incendiary. However, I will only mention that her breasts, both equally, her ass, in all its poses, and her pussy, OMG, are spectacular, I mean, full of love and so accommodating of my whims of not knowing where to begin.

There are too many choices, my love. I love them all. You choose, my love. Perhaps you have a preference.

“I don’t either but I do adore how you talk to my pussy as if it had a mind of its own.”

But it does, my love. I was thus misunderstood in some previous stories, being told that I overused the word, pussy. I could never overuse it even if I had written it a billion times. And if we say it all together, many will hear it and believe that pussy is number one, which it is. Come on! Do not tell me that you think that it is the prick; that wily ugly thing, especially when it is dressed in its ugly gown. It is ludicrous and foul. It is cute in the late teens and maybe our 20s, but after that, forget about it. It looks like a sorry case of misunderstanding. How low can it get, and them too? But I digressed. Pussy is the word to shout out every time you want to feel good. Say it with me! PUSSY! Again! It gives me hope.