My Muse has Misplaced his Marbles…

Has your muse ever… gone off the deep end? Gone somewhere he (or she) wouldn’t normally go? Mine has now done this a couple of times. The first was during my very first NaNo last November. Damn dragon plunked his scaly little ass down right between me and my sexy cowboy, then took over the conversation. He made me start writing fantasy. No biggie, really, as dragons are my favorite part of the genre.

But then last night happened. I was cruising along and a song came on. My muse turned a simple, sweet phrase into something creepy. And then made it erotic. Oh yes. My muse thought, while we listened to Roy Orbison’s Dream Baby, (yes, I love oldies. I grew up listening to them with my dad, but that’s for a different post.) “boy. Sweet dream, Baby would be really creepy if it came from the wrong person.”

And then I, for all practical purposes, blacked out. When the next song on my playlist came on, I’d written about 300 words. That’s a two and a half minute song. I know I don’t type that fast. I run closer to about 70 words per minute – when I’m on a roll.

I’m traditionally a romance-mystery-erotica-and-apparently-fantasy writer. So why did my muse throw a “creeper” in there last night, right in the middle of a WIP? In case you’re wondering, here’s the piece. I can’t quite call it a horror – though clowns are creepier than hell to me, which is a perfectly legitimate reason to have never read or seen Stephen King’s It. And why I called it a “creeper.” (I suppose fetish could work for this.) So. Without further ado, here is the piece that has ruined Roy Orbison for life. And I can’t quite categorize it either.

Roy Orbison crooned through the crappy speakers in the concrete room in a continuous loop. I remember that. I remember that as much as I remember the clown smiling down at me. But he wasn’t a clown. He wore the face of a clown. And not much else.

His eyes betrayed him; a glint of crazy in them as they snaked over my naked form. His laugh screeched in my ears.

His hands — hard, like the metal table I lay on, cold, like the frigid room that entombed me. They grazed against me, gentle as a lover’s caress. He brushed my damp hair from my face.

Frozen in place, I couldn’t move. Not even for the futile attempt at avoiding contact when his knuckles skimmed across my nipple. Open palms stroked the hard peaks atop my ample breasts.

Cold. His hands were so cold. My skin pimpled as chills swept over me. My eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Another cackle. I flinched at the sound, a reflex I couldn’t control any more than the pool of heat between my legs.

His breath was hot, blistering like sunburn; sweat beaded on my chilled skin. His tongue blazed a trail from my navel and up between my breasts, tickling me. The stubble at his chin was sharp like the razor he’d scratched across the sensitive skin around my cooch. Strong, confident hands massaged me. The very essence of my being dripped from between my folds.

I trembled, as much as my restraints would allow. With my arms stretched tight above my head, my shoulders ached as much as the throbbing need for him to take me to the edge and let me fall.

Instead, he pulled his cock out of his boxers – the only thing he wore – and jerked his limp dick to life one tug at a time. Sounds of glee, like an excited toddler, echoed off the walls inside my head, a sharp squeal of delight an exclamation point as he shot his hot cum over my prone body.

Something pressed against my throat. He didn’t say anything to me. Nothing at all. At least… not until he leaned over me and whispered in my ear. The last thing I remember seeing before my world faded to black was that bright red smile; his voice came out in a raspy whisper.

“Sweet dream, Baby.”