Fate (Closed for Biker Faerie)

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur Hawthorn was hardly to be seen in the city now. He did keep the townhouse near Washington Square, though; after all, there were meetings with his publisher, guest lectures, interviews, and financial matters to be addressed. There was a day when things were different, when the country home was only for getaways, a day when Emily was alive.

It was nearly six years since a drunken driver had leaped the curb and crushed the life out of her just as she stepped up the first stair to the brownstone. Another step or two, and she’d still be with him. But, no, she was gone, and there was no returning.

Emily had been the center of his life, as deeply in love with him as he was of her. And her love was beyond belief. A submissive who took charge, a slave who ruled him by anticipating his every need, his every desire, a wife whose greatest satisfaction came from pleasing him, a lover who found her pleasure in living a thousand and one personae for his pleasure. Romantic. Nurturing. Masochistic. Whatever he needed or wanted. No need to ask or order; she knew and offered herself without a word from him. The pleasures of tenderness and of pain, and all in between delighted her. To be played by him, to have him elicit sighs and cries, moans and screams in a symphony of pleasure was all she lived for. And then she was dead.

He mourned, and then sought relief in other women. Dates and escorts, for tenderness and for pain, but it was all empty; there was no replacement for his lost Emily. And so he took more and more to the secluded country lodge they had built in the Adirondacks. A half-dozen bedrooms and playrooms for their lustful games. Bridal suite and dungeon. Strip club and swimming pool. And there was the outdoors as well, secluded enough for whatever they would play.

It pained him to be there, but there was also solace in the memories each room, each tree, evoked. And it was far better than the pain of walking those stairs where she died. But still he craved to have that love again, to find another woman to be his Scheherazade.

But even a recluse needs provisions, and Arthur drove the hour to the Interstate and then another half hour or so to Plattsburgh one day every week or two for groceries and whatever else he might need. Today was such a day, a pleasantly warm spring day, and Arthur Hawthorn was on his way back to the lodge.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne Simpson cursed as she saw the tyre pressure warning light appear on the dashboard of her Mercedes C-class. She kept on driving, hoping to make it to a gas station but, a mile or so later, the steering was beginning to feel very vague indeed. Pulling over on an isolated stretch of forest lined road she got out and inspected the car. She did indeed have a flat.

“Fuck,” she murmured to herself, “and in the back of beyond too.”

Things had been going well up to that point. The previous day, Anne had ventured out of New York for a conference hosted by the North-east branch of the Association of Practising Psychotherapists. It was basically a trade body for the industry and the subject had been “Therapy in a post Covid World” or at least, how to make money from it.

Anne had delivered a paper on the subject and given a short speech. There’d been a gala dinner in the evening and afterwards she’d fucked one of her fellow therapists, a guy she’d gone to college with. Psychotherapists were a fairly promiscuous bunch. Perhaps it was because they understood human frailty better than most or perhaps it was because the profession attracted people who understood that there was no such thing as good and bad behaviour only what society deemed it to be. Anyway, the sex had been vigorous and nobody had been hurt, just as long as her colleague’s wife didn’t find out that was.

In the morning there’d been more sex, then breakfast then a few face to face meetings before the long drive back to the city. And now she had to deal with a flat.

Anne wasn’t dressed for a wheel change. A smart pencil skirt suit and silk blouse wasn’t going to cut it. Nevertheless she tried but soon found that she couldn’t even leverage the wheel nuts loose.

She leaned in to the car to clean her hands and retrieve her cellphone to call AAA. But as she did a Good Samaritan pulled up behind her, at least that’s what she was hoping. There’d been stories of car jackings along these lonely deserted roads. Either way she was about to find out.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

As Arthur drove down the back road that would lead to his lodge, he spied a car ahead . A Mercedes. Not unusual for this back road; it was the shortest route to the Interstate from the rustic, but luxury, conference center on the shores of Pine Lake. But there was a difference. This car wasn’t moving.

His eye was on it as he approached to pass, and he realized it had a flat front driver side tire. And it had a well-dressed woman standing by the open trunk. He pulled over just ahead of the Mercedes and got out of his Jeep Wrangler.

“Flat tire, I see, Ma’am,” he said as he approached the woman. “Maybe I can help.”

He glanced at her clothing, very nice business-like attire.

“I take it you’ve been at the conference center,” he said, adding “You’re definitely not dressed for changing a tire.”

He looked up at her. She looked as good as she was dressed. He smiled as he looked her in the eye and offered her his hand.

“I’m Arthur,” he said, “Arthur Hawthorn. I live about five miles from here.”

“I’d be happy to change your tire, if you want,” he continued, “or help you any other way.”

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne relaxed when she saw the man get out of his car. He didn’t look like a carjacker, in fact he was quite a tall, good looking, middle aged man. Someone who liked to keep in shape she guessed but wasn't to obsessive about it. But there was also something familiar about him. She wracked her brain as to why that might be but couldn’t come up with anything.

“Flat tire, I see, Ma’am,” he said as he approached the woman. “Maybe I can help.”

“Would you mind taking a look,” she replied. “I’ve got a spare wheel and a jack in the trunk but I can’t seem to undo the wheel-nuts.”

She noticed him glance over her for a moment.

“I take it you’ve been at the conference center,” he said, adding “You’re definitely not dressed for changing a tire.”

“You're right,” she replied slightly awkwardly. “I was on my way back to the city when this happened. I could call AAA but who knows how long they’ll be.”

As he bent down to look at the tyre she caught him looking up over her again. Perhaps it was the stockings she thought. Men always liked stockings. Then, getting up, he held out his hand in hand in greeting.

“I’m Arthur,” he said, “Arthur Hawthorn. I live about five miles from here. I’d be happy to change your tire, if you want,” he continued, “or help you any other way.”

The penny dropped. He was Arthur Hawthorn, the author. Anne had several of his books at her apartment and she must have recognised him from one of the jacket sleeves. He'd been nominated for several awards including the Booker prize. But she couldn't recall him writing anything recently.

"You're Arthur hawthorn the author, aren't you?" she asked. "I hate to ask such a distinguished writer to change my wheel but if you could then I'd be so grateful. I don't want to put you to any trouble though."

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur couldn’t help but take another look at the woman as he introduced himself. Yes, the stockings were attractive, he reflected, but he’d never looked at a woman’s business suit in that way before. Maybe it was this woman who made it so appealing, or, perhaps, he’d just never noticed. One thing was for sure, though; the one-button jacket highlighted her bosom. So noticeably so that Arthur stashed it away in his mind as a note to consider in a future story.

“Yes, I am that Arthur Hawthorn,” he replied, “and I’d be lying to say it was no trouble, but if it really were no trouble, my help would be pretty meaningless. Of course I’ll change it for you.”

“You can call me Arthur,” he said as he fetched the tire iron. “And what may I call you?”

In her reaction to finding out who he was Arthur figured she must have forgotten her side of the introduction, He took the tool to the first lug nut, and a strong pull didn’t budge it.

“I think someone’s over-tightened your nuts,” he observed, “but there is a little trick that will loosen them.”

He showed how one could position the iron so the lever end was pointing towards nine- o’clock from the nut. Then, with two hand on the tool, he pushed down as he jumped up. The nut instantly loosened.

“Just a matter of physics,” he explained. “Mass times acceleration equals force. Jumping and pushing puts more than all your weight into the job.”

He began to loosen all the nuts and then paused.

“I’m sorry, Anne,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be ‘mansplaining’ you.”

 

[Biker_Faerie]

“You can call me Arthur,” he said as he fetched the tire iron. “And what may I call you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m Anne. Anne Simpson,” Anne corrected herself. "I'm a psychotherapist, I was just on my way back from a conference."

Anne was relieved to see that it wasn’t just her who had trouble undoing the wheel-nuts of the Mercedes. But with superior strength and technique Arthur was able to loosen them. It reminded her of her father, when she was a kid, putting his hands on the bonnet of the family car and jumping up and down on the lever until the nut relented and he fell to the ground. She’d thought about trying that but her shoes were far too expensive to risk ruining.

She chuckled as Arthur apologised for patronising her as he explained his technique. At least he realised he was doing it, some men didn't. But then again, even if he hadn't apologised, Anne would have played along and cooed in the right places, if the end result had been getting her flat sorted. She wasn't above playing the damsel in distress if required and if experience had taught her anything it was that, whether we knew it or not, we were always playing a role. Sometimes that role changed depending on the situation though. Yesterday she'd been a keynote speaker at a conference, today she was a woman too weak to change her own wheel.

After Arthur had loosened the nuts, it was a fairly straightforward process to change the wheel over. She felt a bit stupid watching him work while she stood by but there wasn't really much she could do to help. When he'd finished she wondered how to show her gratitude. It wasn't as though she could slip him a few bucks for his troubles. So she decided to leave her thanks open ended.

"I can't thank you enough," she told him. "I can only guess how long it would have taken AAA to get here, that's if they could find me. I definitely owe you a drink if ever you're in New York and I'd love to hear about your writing. Are you working on anything at the moment?"

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur smiled to himself. ‘A psychotherapist,’ he thought. ‘I guess she’s never treated an author.’

“I’d be happy to talk to you about writing, even what I’ve written,” he replied, “but author’s rarely talk about what they’re writing. We’re all very paranoid about someone stealing our story ideas.”

An image briefly flashed in Arthur’s mind, an image of him, sitting in a bar with her, discussing what he was working on right now . It didn’t seem at all uncomfortable, and he had to admit there was something about her that attracted him, ‘Maybe it’s because she’s a therapist,’ he thought. ‘She just unconsciously puts people at rest.’

“And I’d be happy to do it over that drink you offered,” he proposed.

As he put the flat into her trunk, he turned back towards her.

“I don’t want to sound patronizing again,” he declared, “but I do have to note that even Mercedes doesn’t put full-fledged replacements as spares. They’re all temporary now. Why, some brands only give you a can of aerosol sealant, and that’s only good for small leaks.”

He closed the trunk and continued.

“The spare’s recommended for no more than thirty-five miles, and you’re over two hundred from the city. It may make it, but you might have a blow-out before you get home.”

He put his jacket back on and cleaned his hands with a disposable wipe.

“There’s a garage down the road that should have a replacement for you; they handle a lot of upscale autos around here. I could call and see if they’ll take care of it right away.”

“And there’s a nice bar across the road from the garage, if you’d like to buy me that drink now. Otherwise, I’ll be in the city next week for a meeting with my publisher. You could buy me a drink then, and we could chat over dinner.”

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne considered her predicament. There was still a long way to go to New York and, although waiting for a garage to repair the tyre would be a pain, it was preferable to the risk of getting another flat.

“I could call and see if they’ll take care of it right away. And there’s a nice bar across the road from the garage, if you’d like to buy me that drink now.“

It wasn’t every day you got to have a drink with a famous author and, if nothing else, it would be a story to tell her friends, so Anne agreed.

“If you wouldn’t mind calling ahead that sounds like the best idea and I’ll happily buy you that drink,” she told Arthur.

With the decision made, Anne followed Arthur to the garage keeping her speed down as the instructions on the spare tyre had told her to.

The garage was in a small town at the junction of two roads through the forest. It was the sort of place that acted both as a general stores for the region but also catered for weekenders up from the city.

Anne left her car with the one of the technicians at the garage and gave him her cellphone number to call when they had news.

The bar across the street was ok. Anne wouldn’t have gone as far to say it qualified as nice but she knew she was being a snob. It sat next to a restaurant on one side and a coffee shop on the other. There was decking outside where you could drink al fresco if you wanted.

“Inside or out? “ Anne asked Arthur. “Which do you prefer?”

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“Outside, if you please,” Arthur replied. “I do like to take advantage of pleasant weather.”

They ordered, Arthur requesting his usual double Redbreast with a single cube. Before their drinks arrived, Gus called from the garage.

“Good news, Ms. Simpson,” he declared. “It’s a simple nail puncture. We can repair it. You won’t need a new tire; the flat will be as good as new. It’ll be ready in about an hour.”

“Gus does good work,” Arthur noted; “I bring my cars here.”

The server arrived with their drinks.

“And no,” Arthur added with a little laugh, “he doesn’t have a beautiful, but wandering, wife, and I haven’t promised to sell him my car.”

He paused.

“Just in case you thought you were walking into the Great Gatsby.”

“You did want to talk about writing,” he said, and took a sip of his whiskey.

“I haven’t really written anything in five years. Not that I haven’t tried. My wife was killed by a drunk driver almost six years ago, and all I’ve written since then is a novel I was working on at the time. I only finished it because of my publisher. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with it, but still it was well-received.”

He paused briefly for another sip, and briefly wondered why he was opening up like this to a perfect stranger. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about Emily’s death since her funeral. Was it because she was a therapist, or was there something else happening. He took another sip and continued.

“I’ve tried writing - even wrote some introductory chapters - but always hit a dead end. I have a computer full of false starts.”

“But author’s do run into blocks. Then they pray for a muse to inspire them anew. All too often, though, Calliope is over-booked.”

He stopped to pick up his glass once more.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

It was good news about the car. On Arthur’s recommendation it had been the right decision to get it repaired.

As they sat on the small deck drinking, Anne couldn’t help analysing her first impressions of the man. His speech was quite formal, from a bygone age almost. And his Great Gatsby reference had been unnecessary, almost as if he had wanted to impress with his eruditeness. But when he told her about his wife’s death however, she felt the genuine sadness in his voice.

Writers block was a subject she didn’t know much about. It interested her though. People in all fields sometimes stopped failing to perform. Was it lack of inspiration, failure to put in the effort, or just an exhaustion of whatever talent they’d had in the first place?

Arthurs’s mention of a muse made her chuckle silently though. Men had been relying on the services of so called muses for centuries to satisfy what was basically a human frailty, sexual gratification. Frailty came in many forms but along with opium, absinthe and LSD, sex had been the so called inspiration for countless literary works of art. Whether it was true or whether it was just an excuse to pander to man’s baser needs, she couldn’t say, but the subject certainly piqued her professional curiosity.

“Why do you think you need a muse to write?,” she asked. “You’re the same flesh and blood, the same collection of atoms whether you have one or not. What was it your wife did for you that, say someone like me for example, couldn’t?”

 

[Tio_Narratore]

‘Well,’ Arthur thought, seeing that she got the Fitzgerald reference, ‘at least she’s read one American classic.’

He felt that therapists tended to be a dull bunch intellectually; too concerned with method and not enough with madness. He was a bit disappointed to find it in her question.

“A muse is a metaphor,” he replied, “it’s generally interpreted as a woman who provides sexual satisfaction to an artist to keep him inspired. But in truth, it’s anything that spurs the imagination. To say I’m the same collection of matter is a meaningless reduction. Is the Sistine Chapel ceiling a collection of pigments? Reductionism misses reality. That’s for people who think that Little Red Riding Hood is about obeying your mother and talking to wolves.”

“A muse is what opens our psyche to the story, the picture, the symphony, that needs to write itself out through us. Whether he, she, or it does it by giving us an earth-moving orgasm or whacking us upside the head with a frying pan, a muse it what lets it into out head to find its way out through our skills and abilities.”

“Yes, Emily often was my muse, and in many ways. Could someone like you be my muse? Of course. And likely without even realizing it. Like right now. Your question left my mind wandering through left field, and started an idea that may be the story that wants to be told.”

He finished his whiskey.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Arthur hadn’t really answered her question but she let it slide.

Anne could have continued, suggesting that the search for a muse was just an excuse, a reason to hide behind. But there was no point in picking an argument, intellectual or otherwise, with the man over something that wasn’t really her business. Especially since he’d been her Good Samaritan

Seeing that he’d finished his drink, she checked her watch and decided to make a move.

“Hopefully my car should be ready by now,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough for helping me today. I’d probably still be stuck by the side of the road if it hadn’t been for you.”

Anne pulled out a couple of bills from her purse and left them on the table. Then, getting up, she offered him her hand.

“I hope you find your inspiration and I look forward to reading your next book,” she told Arthur. “And thank you again.”

The drive back to the city was uneventful, although the delay meant that she hit early evening traffic. She thought about the encounter as she drove and resolved to try to find the time to read Arthur’s books again. He’d been a talented writer, although at times she’d found his books hard to follow. Losing his wife couldn’t have been easy for him.

Anne thought about her own circumstances and was glad that she wasn’t emotionally attached to anyone. She valued her freedom and independence too much. She knew that hers was a selfish existence. The ability to do what you want when you want and with who you want suited her. Fortunately she didn’t need a muse, if anything her needs were the opposite. Anne liked variety. Especially the thrill of something or someone new.

But she was curious as to whether she might have been able to cure Arthur’s writers block. He would have made an interesting subject, for purely scientific purposes of course. Perhaps through a series of encounters she could have inspired him to write a Booker winner, perhaps even a Nobel.

She had intended to spend the night alone but her thoughts had excited her. She called Alejandro, her Ceroc instructor. He could have her body tonight.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur was annoyed that Anne didn’t seem to understand him about muses, that she seemed to consider it only a euphemism for an artist’s mistress, but that didn’t fully explain why she was on his mind as he drove home, and still on his mind long after. Sexual attraction was there, to be sure; she was a good-looking woman, and, even more significantly, exuded a sensuous self-confidence that was both a challenge and a draw. He was glad they had exchanged professional cards; he had pretty much resolved to ask her to dinner this weekend when he was in the City for a meeting with his publisher.

Sex was on his mind that night as he sat down in his study and tried once more to write. His mind kept distracting him though, wandering time and time again to thoughts of Emily. Unable to focus, he turned, as he had often done during these past years, to Emily’s diary. A quiet read of a few of her entries brought him memories of good times, though now tinged with a sense of sadness and loss. Tonight he laughed over one of her turning of the tables on him.

He had arrived home late, very late, from a dinner meeting that had been followed by a few drinks. When he came trough the door, Emily was waiting for hm, dressed in a long white silk robe and brandishing her pistol. “Who are you?” she had demanded, treating him as an intruder. From there she forced him, at gun-point, to strip and satisfy her sexually. He smiled at the memory and put the diary aside to go to bed.

That night he had a strange dream. The car that had killed Emily was central to it, but it wasn’t on the steps. It was on the side of the road, apparently accidented. He was driving by and stopped. As he got out of his car, the other driver did the same. It was Anne, the woman he had just met. He asked if he could help, and she said ‘yes’ as her clothes dissolved into mist. She pulled him to her, falling back on the hood of her car and wrapping her legs around hm. He awoke at that point with a confused notion that somehow the fates had sent him a new woman, a new muse. The thought stayed in his mind, along with an intense degree of horniness, the whole day and into the next. He resolved to make two phone calls.

The first was to Phryne’s Escorts, his usual outlet. When asked who he wanted, he asked to be surprised, “not someone who does what I want,” he explained; “someone who’ll do something to make me want her.” The agreement made, he could expect a companion to arrive after dinner on Wednesday.

The second call was to Anne.

“I’m in town for a meeting on Friday,” he explained, “and I’ll be staying for the weekend. I’d be honored if you’d join me for dinner on Saturday.”

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne studied herself in the mirror as she put on the last of her make-up. She'd been surprised to be invited to dinner by Arthur. Their initial meeting hadn't gone so well she'd felt. All the same she was grateful to him for coming to her rescue. She accepted Arthur's invitation, partly because of this kindness, but mainly because of a continuing curiosity. Could she inspire Arthur to write another novel? Not just any novel though, but a great one.

The challenge appealed to Anne from a professional perspective and she'd begun considering might be required to elicit a successful outcome. The trouble was she had no idea how his wife had inspired him. It could have been anything from the gentlest of love to... well, who knew. Anne was pretty liberated sexually but she had no reason to believe that a man who had been married for years to a woman he loved would be similarly disposed.

She also had no idea how to pitch such a proposal. She didn't even know if Arthur found her attractive or even for that matter if attraction was a requirement. She would have to play it by ear she decided. Perhaps drop a few hints along the way.

Her choice of dress was bold. There was no point in being too coy she decided. If Arthur seemed interested she might make him a proposal. If he didn't, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She caught the elevator down to the lobby of her apartment building and took the waiting taxi across town to the restaurant he'd chosen.

"Anne Simpson," she told the Maitre d', "dining with Arthur Hawthorn."

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Wednesday went well for Arthur, very well. Phyrne had outdone herself this time. Heba had a gift for dance, for intimate dance. She was a gift for Arthur as well, and he amply rewarded her for her more than ordinary skills. But by Thursday afternoon his thoughts were back on Anne.

He knew the idea that Anne was destined for him by the Fates was unrealistic, yet he couldn’t shake it. He couldn’t help but argue with himself over it the rest of the day and into the next. She didn’t seem to be emotional, and not at all submissive, but, then again, Emily was emotional, but also was an equal to him. A complementary equal, she was submissive from a sense of strength, of being confident enough to bestow herself on him, Anne was clearly his equal, but they battled rather than complemented each other. Or was there something else, something he sensed about her but didn’t fully comprehend? Perhaps more would be uncovered during their date on Saturday.

Date? Yes, it was a date, Arthur realized; he had asked a woman out. Asked a woman out for the first time since he lost Emily. He’d been out with other women, but these were all arranged by well-meaning friends. None of them ever went that well. A good time, mostly, often with sex, but there was always a certain sense of the artificial, of the constructed, about it, and always a sense of discomfort. There was none of that with the escorts; they and he knew what they were there for. And so he had turned exclusively to courtesans for female companionship, and he found he could obtain any form of intimacy he desired. At least physical intimacy, from the most vanilla to the darker realms of desire, could be had, but the psychological connection, the intimacy given from desire, wasn’t there. He’d even given up on expecting to ever find it again.

And here he was, Friday morning, in his way to the city to meet once again with his publisher, to discuss the absence of his work, his failure to produce. But that wasn’t the source of the anxiety he felt as he entered the Thruway; it was Saturday’s date with Anne.

The meeting with the publisher and Arthur’s usual editor went passably well, with both offering to help him out of his block anyway they could. Both were also pleased to hear he had a date, a date he himself had arranged; they hoped that would help move him on, that it was a sign he’d come out of the hole he’d been in since Emily’s death. They asked to see him again before he went back to the lodge, perhaps a late luncheon on Sunday before he headed back to the lodge. He agreed; two o’clock at La Grande Boucherie.

Saturday, and his anxiety was mostly under control; after all, he had a drink with the woman already; a dinner wouldn’t be much more. Still he arrived a bit early to have a drink while he awaited her arrival at the Gramercy.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

The Maitre d’ told Anne that Arthur had already arrived and escorted her to the bar area where he was waiting. He looked smart, like he’d made an effort, which was nice considering she’d done the same. For a moment she wondered if she’d dressed too obviously though. But then again what did it matter, he was either interested or he wasn’t.

The place he’d chosen wasn’t cheap however so that was a good start she thought. She’d never eaten there before but had heard good things about it.

“It’s good to see you again Arthur,” she told him giving him a lingering but polite embrace. “I wasn’t sure I would.”

A waiter asked Anne what she wanted to drink and she ordered a Manhattan. When it arrived, the first sip was to die for. Anne tried to limit her alcohol intake these days, knowing the effect it had on her.

“How have you been since we last met?” she asked, “and what brings you to New York by the way. Do you have a new book out soon?”

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur rose as he saw Anne being escorted into the dining room. He couldn’t help but ogle her in her provocative dress, but did manage to suppress it after the first glance.

Her embrace was polite, but still he felt a certain warmth in it as he returned the brief hug.

“It’s good to see you again, Anne,” he said. “Very good to see you. You’re outfit is particularly attractive, but I guess you’ve already noticed my appreciation.”

He sat back down as she ordered a drink.

“I’ve been thinking about you since our little discussion about muses. I’d like to continue it, perhaps over dinner.”

“I’ve been well,” he said in reply, “and, no, I don’t have a new book out yet, but I have been working on the idea I had during our discussion. My publisher and my editor both like it. I have to see know if it really works out.”

Arthur’s mind was in two, not unrelated, places at that moment: his idea for the story and his growing sexual interest in Anne.

The server arrived with their menus.

“The seasonal dinner is always great; there’s two choices for each course. We can go à la carte, though, if you’d prefer.”

He took a sip of his drink, a double Yellow Spot, neat.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

“Your outfit is particularly attractive, but I guess you’ve already noticed my appreciation.”

The gamble had paid off. Arthur liked the dress, or at least he was polite enough to say he did.

“Thank you Arthur. It’s a bit more daring than I’d usually wear, but I thought it appropriate under the circumstances,” she replied.

“I’ve been thinking about you since our little discussion about muses. I’d like to continue it, perhaps over dinner.”

“I think that would be a good idea and besides, I have a proposition for you.”

Anne was intrigued to hear that Arthur had been planning a new book. The timing couldn’t have been better, she thought.

She chose from the menu, leaving Arthur to decide on the wine. Then, when they’d finished their drinks, the waiter showed them to their table and over the entree Anne explained her proposition.

“I’m a fairly independent woman. I value my freedom and for better or worse the idea of monogamy is not for me,” she began. “But I’m intrigued by the idea of being your muse and giving you the inspiration to fulfil your potential once again. I’m not interested in replacing your wife but I am interested in doing whatever your wife did for you sexually that allowed your creative juices to flow, so to speak.”

Anne stopped to judge Arthur’s reaction then continued.

“For me, this would be a bit of an experiment. I think you’d find me sexually liberated with few boundaries, but without the precise knowledge of what you and your wife enjoyed, I couldn’t be certain of satisfying your needs of course. So there you have that’s a rough synopsis of my offer.”

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur was a bit taken aback at Anne’s proposition; that she might suggest a night together would have been expected, but this was more. He laughed as well, not a nervous laugh, but the laugh that comes from understanding another’s lack of understanding. He wasn’t at all surprised, then, when she explained further that she envisioned it as a sort of experiment.

“A very intriguing and appealing offer,” he said with another laugh, “and one I’d be happy to accept.”

He paused for her reaction, and then continued.

“Now, if you’d like to know about the relationship between Emily and myself, about our sex life, I’ll tell you. And, if you’re still interested, I’ll do more than that; I’ll let you read her diary.”

They finished their meal and opted for a light dessert and another drink. While they sipped their after-dinner drinks, Arthur explained their complex relationship of dom and sub as equals and their sexual proclivities, of leather and lace, of ropes and whips, of ribbons and bows, of sluts and virgin brides, villains and heros.

“Emily was a free spirit,” Arthur explained, “and she found her freedom in being a sub, my sub. She said it freed her mind of so many decisions that it let her imagination flow. She enjoyed it when I picked clothes for her, and I enjoyed seeing her in them. She liked sex in so many ways, and she loved to please me. Sweet romantic sex, rough man-handling, and more, even sometimes to the point of massive endorphin release.”

Another round of drinks.

“We’d play games,” he explained, “sometimes pre-planned, sometimes impromptu. If one of us wanted something in particular, there’d be hints or even notes. All sorts of games, play acting weddings and rapes, trips out, too. Emily enjoyed playing the slut, and I’d arrange to take her to some bar or club where she cold play out her fantasies. We were far from monogamous.”

“She was very playful, too,” he continued. “Out for dinner like this, she might kick off her shoe and play footsie up my leg until she was massaging my crotch. She might slip the waiter a glimpse of her tit. Or even start flirting with some man at another table, and then get up to go to the ladies,' motioning for him to follow her. She’d reward him in the men’s room by bending over for a quickie or squatting for a blow job.”

“Some times she’d look at me in a way that I understood, and I’d slip out of my loafer and run my foot up the inside of her leg and between her thighs to massage her pussy.”

As he spoke, he did just that, and slipped his way onto Anne’s mound.

“I’d rub her until she came; she always enjoyed having an orgasm in public without it showing.”

He rubbed Anne’s pussy a bit more vigorously as he looked into her eyes, and then paused to see if her offer still stood.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne listened to Arthur describe his sexual relationship with Emily. Nothing he'd said had offended her and much excited her in fact. The idea of being exhibited in clothes someone else had chosen especially appealed to her, as did playing the slut in a bar or club.

"I'd like to read her diaries," she told him. "It might give me a better understanding of your relationship."

She felt Arthur's foot push between her thighs and his toes press against her clitoris. Discretely she opened her legs a little wider and then she reached down and held his foot against her.

Looking around for a moment, she eyed the waiters.

"To be honest i don't think much of the waiters in here, but perhaps we could go to a club i know not too far from here. You can dance and there are plenty of dark corners to get up to mischief in. Perhaps you could pick out a man to share me with?"

 

[Tio_Narratore]

Arthur gave her clit one more twist of his toe and slipped his foot back into his loafer.

“That does sound like fun, Anne,” he agreed.

They finished their drinks; Arthur left a pair of fifties for the server and charged the meal to his account. The door man hailed a cab, and soon they were on their way to the club Anne had suggested.

The ride wasn’t long, but Arthur was sure to make good use of it. One arm around Anne’s shoulders, and he drew her in for a kiss. Firm and hard, his tongue slipping over her lips before thrusting between them to taste her for the first time. And he did like her taste.

His other arm wasn’t idle during the trip, either. His hand quickly found its way under that sexy dress to explore what his toes had already felt. It was warm and wet between her labia, warm and wet right through her panties. And his forearm was nicely snuggled in between the soft inner flesh of her thighs. When they arrived at the club, Arthur considered telling the driver to circle the block a few times, but instead he was anxious to see what pleasures were to be found within the venue.

The doorman tipped, Arthur and Anne entered the dimly lit club. It was crowded, and the music was towards the loud side. There was a live band, and a gyrating mass of people filling the dance floor in front of the musicians. The crowd seemed well-dressed, in suitable clubbing wear, and mostly in their later twenties and thirties. He looked for a table, and spied one in a corner. There was no one at it, but a full drink was to be seen on it. Arthur scanned the room and spied a young man, a bit younger than the crowd, he thought, at a table of three laughing women.

As Arthur watched, he saw the youngster turn, looking very dejected, and head towards that table. It was clear: he had asked for a dance, and the women laughed him off. ‘That was cruel,’ Arthur thought, and he took Anne’s hand.

“Let’s see if we can share that corner table,” he said as he led her that way. “I think that fellow could use some company.”

When they arrived at the table, the young man had finished half his drink.

“Do you mind if we join you,” Arthur ventured cheerfully. “You have a good table and plenty of room for company.”

“Of course,” the young man said, brightening up noticeably. “Please have a seat.”

“I’m Arthur, but you can call me Artie. This is my partner, Anne.”

There was a subtle note to the way Arthur said “partner,” a warmth in his voice that almost suggested they had long been a couple.

“I’m Greg,” the young man replied as he stood up to offer his hand to them both, though his eyes were clearly on Anne.

“Pleased to meet you, Greg,” Arthur said as he shook hands and then took the seat on Greg’s left. Anne had the seat to their host's right.

Arthur looked towards the dance floor. The band was starting up a new piece; the lead guitarist declared it a slow dance, “for all you hotties out there.”

“You know what, Greg,” Arthur said, “I know Anne is just dying to dance. Why don’t you take her for a turn? I’ll order drinks while you’re out there.”

“What are you drinking?” Arthur asked as Greg almost flew from his chair.

“Tequila Sunrise,” he responded quickly as he offered Anne his hand.

“May I have this dance, Anne?” Greg asked politely, but with a slight nervous tremble in his voice.

“A Manhattan, Dear?” Arthur asked Anne, and he sat back to wait for the server and watch the couple share the slow dance.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

Anne was a little surprised by Arthur's enthusiasm in the taxi. He'd seemed quite reserved until then. As they kissed, she felt his hand hand go straight for her pussy and she responded in kind, stroking the outline of his nascent erection with her fingers. She caught the taxi driver's eye in the rear view mirror and held it for a moment, the thought of being watched by a stranger only added to her excitement.

It was a Saturday and the club was predictably busy. The band played 'covers' and had got the audience up and dancing, but from the half finished drinks you could tell that most of the tables were taken. Arthur however had noticed a table out of the way, to one side, which seemed the least occupied. They both watched as a young man returned to it, having been turned down by a group of slightly older women. The crowd inside was young, Younger than Anne or Arthur, but the young man was definitely younger than most there that evening. In a couple more years he could technically have been old enough to Anne's son, had Anne ever been careless enough to allow such a thing to happen.

Arthur introduced them both and asked if they could share the table and Greg agreed, eager for company. Anne caught him secretly looking her over and gave him a dirty smile. But, while she might have been underdressed for the restaurant she was probably a little overdressed for what passed as clubwear these days There were girls on the dancefloor who were barely decent.

"You know what, Greg,” Arthur said, “I know Anne is just dying to dance. Why don’t you take her for a turn? I’ll order drinks while you’re out there.”

Greg's eyes lit up at the offer and asked Arthur for a Tequila Sunrise. It wasn't a very manly drink, Anne thought, but he was young and still had much to learn.

“May I have this dance, Anne?” Greg asked politely, but with a slight nervous tremble in his voice.

"I'd love to Greg," she replied, "and a Manhattan would be great, Artie, thank-you."

The band began to play Coldplay's yellow and the dancefloor emptied a little leaving only the slow dancer's remaining. Anne chose a spot where Arthur could watch the two of them and put her arms around Greg's neck, allowing him to put his arms on her waist.

The two of them began to dance, swaying to the music then, after the first verse, Anne surprised Greg by putting her head on his shoulder and kissing his neck.

"Are you sure Artie's ok with you doing that?” Greg asked, concern showing in his voice.

“He wouldn’t have asked you to take me for a dance if he wasn’t,” Anne replied pressing her body against him. “I think he’d be disappointed if we didn’t put on a little show for him.”

Anne’s pep talk seemed to embolden Greg and she felt his hand travel over her backside to the hem of her little black dress then his fingers toying with the tops of her stockings.

“Have you come on your own tonight?” she asked.

“I was with my cousin and his girlfriend but they decided to go back to her apartment a while ago and obviously I wasn’t invited.”

“Well if you play your cards right, perhaps you’ll get to come back with us tonight,” Anne teased. “Just let yourself be guided by Artie.”

The song ended and the next one was more upbeat, so Anne led Greg back to the table where Arthur was waiting for them. She gave Arthur a lingering kiss then whispered into his ear.

“I like this one,” she told him.

 

[Tio_Narratore]

As Anne led Greg to the dance floor, Arthur had a moment to reflect on the taxi ride. That was fun, he thought, it was good to let myself go like that. I’m rather glad I accepted her offer.

A server approached and interrupted his thought. He ordered their drinks and turned hi eyes to the dance floor. He smiled as he watched Anne take the lead, wrapping her arms sensuously around the boy’s neck and wiggling seductively a bit as his arms encircled her waist. Yes, the dance was slow, and Anne did make it very erotic. And then there was Greg.

His choice of drinks gave Arthur the impression that the boy was a bit effeminate, or maybe just a mama’s boy. That got Arthur thinking. Thinking of all those stories about boys who needed their Momma, or someone like her, to lead him to the facts of life. Maybe that was even the case for Jocasta and Oedipus. No matter, Arthur focused more on the actual tale unfolding before him. Greg was clearly inexperienced, and Ann was more than capable of remedying that.

Their drinks arrived, and, as Arthur took a sip of his Bushmill, he realized Anne had given him yet another inspiration for his unwritten novel. That was three, and Arthur thought about telling her. He reconsidered, though; knowing how successful she was so far might make her self-conscious and bring the whole experiment to an end.

The piece finished, the couple returned to the table. Anne’s kiss was warm, lingering, and welcome, as welcome as her decision that she liked Greg. As she sat back down, he nodded assent to her choice.

“Well, Greg,” he said turning to the boy, “how did you like dancing with Anne? She’s very good on her feet.”

“Yes,” Greg replied, "she does dance well. Better than me. I kinda just followed along.”

“The slow dances are best, I think,” Arthur continued, “you really get to feel your partners and how they move. Did Anne grind her hips as you were close? I just love how that feels. And her breasts! God, how I love it when she holds me close in a dance and presses them against my chest. You must have felt that!”

“I -I - I did,” Greg stammered as his cheeks began to flush.

He glanced towards Anne for her reaction. A bit more emboldened, he continued.

“They felt very nice,” he added, but felt he should say more; after all, Anne had told him to follow Arthur’s lead.

“They’re very full and soft, Artie. I like them very much.”

Arthur slipped off his loafer again and started diddling Anne with his foot. He knew she was already interested in Greg for a bit of fun, and he wanted to try to get her to ooze sex into the air at the table. He smiled at her, implying she should feel free to join in the play as well.

“A nice ass, too,” Arthur added. “And I saw your hand on the back of her thigh. I think we’re in agreement that the intersection of stocking and thigh is one of the sexiest spots you can find on a woman who’s dressed.”

Greg turned bright red at the thought that Arthur had seen him do that.

Arthur laughed lightly and left it for Anne to relieve the boy’s embarrassment.

 

[Biker_Faerie]

"Don't let Artie get to you," Anne reassured Greg. "He's just teasing."

She placed a hand on Greg's thigh, partly as a gesture of reassurance but then let her fingers trail up his leg until they rested next to his groin.

"To be honest, we came here this evening looking for a man for Artie to share me with. I want to show artie what a dirty little whore i can be you see," she explained. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in helping us out, would you?"

"I could be," Greg replied cautiously. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Well, I thought that you and i could have some fun here while Artie watched us. Then, when we get back to Artie's place I thought he could direct us and you could fuck me. Afterwards, when he's good and excited then I'm going to let Artie to fuck me and I'll leave it to him to decide who gets to clean me up afterwards."

Greg thought for a moment then made his decision.

"Ok, I'm in," he agreed.

"Good," Anne replied. "Well why don't you begin by replacing Artie's foot with your hand and letting him watch you finger me while we kiss. Then, Artie, it's up to you to tell us what you'd like to see next!"

 

[Tio_Narratore]

“Well, Greg,” Artie says, “I can see why Anne is anxious to kiss you. Women pay a lot of attention to men’s lips, and I do think yours are quite sexy.”

He reaches over and hooks his left forefinger under Greg’s jaw.

“Yes, very sexy,” he says as he lifts the young man’s head straight upright and turns it slightly towards Anne.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Anne.” he asks as he runs his thumb over Greg’s lips, lightly tracing the outline.

Arthur releases Greg’s jaw.

“I can see Anne is anxious to taste those sexy lips of yours, Greg,” Arthur says. “I think you better get to it.”

Arthur sits back and sips his whiskey, smiling over Greg’s girlish submissiveness.