Come Eat Me

Before I begin this story, please note that it continues Muse Love (the first part) and My Sexy Muse (the second). They are both linked at the bottom. But as you may have noticed, the title of this one isn’t as subdued, and sex is going to be everywhere in this tale, in every paragraph, and sometimes in every word. However, please remember that love and sex aren’t usually the same, word or action, especially the reaction. I love you versus I want to eat you. Which one is more promising? It depends on who’s telling whom. Let’s say it’s M saying it to his muse. I love you, my muse. She already knows. She always knew being a muse, who lives on the fucking Moon. Can you believe it? At least it’s not Mars. But still, be my heart! How far is the Moon? A whopping 384,400 km (238,906 miles). What the fuck?

Of course, in this case, I love you sounds more realistic than I want to eat you. Eat what? The space between us? The words? Yes, the words! I eat her words. But that’s not what I want to eat, especially after she said, Come eat me, my love! So, I did. I took a flight to the Moon. It’s much cheaper, even affordable if it’s one way. E.L.O. knew what they were talking about when they sang, Ticket to the Moon. But he was the one going to the Moon, leaving his love behind. Here, the muse with the reddish disposition is already living on the Moon. I have to leave Earth to join her in every possible sense. Moonstruck? I already was before getting to imagine her in the flesh. Oh, she’ll come to visit me again. But when she leaves after we’ve made love, she’ll take with her another piece of my heart, and I’ll be left aching until her return. It happened the first time and the second time as well. I just can’t take it anymore. I’m flying to the Moon, the Czech Republic, really, to pretty Prague.

I didn’t tell her I was coming, knowing she would have refused that I do. I called her as soon as I landed there and she came to meet me at my hotel. When she saw the tears of joy in my eyes, she couldn’t hide any of hers. I kissed her and couldn’t let go, and I don’t think that she wanted me to. I think that I was trying to swallow her whole, so I could take her back with me. I was in love. And when one is in such deep love, it’s either permanent togetherness or death that one seeks. Death is a simple word that means everything there is to know. Life ends. Death is forever. Imagine if it was the other way around. Life is forever. Death ends. Some of us have already adopted a version of this new reality. Life is forever, continuing after death. And death ends simply means that there’s no death. But there is. Any cemetery is a testament to death. It’s full of death, both old and new. And I don’t want to address the so-called soul. It includes some of the best music, though jazz beats it by miles. But death isn’t the point of this story, nor is soul, but life. Life filled with love and happiness, especially when bodies coalesce, uniting everything that can be joined together. Lips, hands, arms around her, losing myself between her thighs. If this last merging of my mouth and her pussy was to be followed by death, I wouldn’t mind it a bit. My prick would die of unrequited desire and épanouissement, but I still wouldn’t care at all. All my senses would have felt her, especially after I had swallowed whatever she had to offer.

My muse didn’t like the expression to be eaten. She preferred to be loved, not perceiving the idea that eating her meant much more than loving her. Eating her was total unadulterated love. She understood it in French. The word manger (to eat) has a nicer ring than eat. Yet manger rhymes with danger (danger), étranger (stranger), and congé (leaving but also vacation), while eat rhymes with slit, feet, heat, neat, treat, sweet, meet, and even meat. It’s one of the most sexual words. When I actually ate her, she began to appreciate the power of such a little word. I couldn’t stop eating her. She was so sweet and more beautiful than any flower, even the Bird of Paradise. And now, again, but only for the third time, she was looking at me with her to-die-for eyes, becoming aware that she wasn’t only my muse but my entire life. I had a quick glimpse of pretty Prague before she arrived, but my heart and my mind were waiting for the marvel who is my muse. Crissey is her name in case you didn’t read the previous two stories and all the poetry she elicited from me. Here’s one poem I wrote about her lips.

I don’t want rouge on your two lips

I want my essence through a kiss

You can put some red on one lip

As long as I lick all of it

Open your lips very slowly

I see white and red but no blue

I was sure you were French at heart

You are only two thirds I know

The Bard has speared some English in

Creating a masterpiece tongue

Waiting between the teeth in form

Its work is always velvet done

Looking at your marvellousness

I wander to the other lips

I want to eat you, I said, as soon as we sat on the bed. I still wanted her permission. She wasn’t my property, or even mine, really. She was my muse. I loved her to perdition and she loved me too. But her love was conditioned on being far away on the Moon, allowing me to touch her when our love required proof. I saw her permission in her eyes. She closed them for a while, giving me free range over every one of her parts. I undressed her very slowly, as if her clothes were to be returned to a museum. One by one, I removed each piece of her garb, folding it gently over a desk chair, that is until I reached her red undergarments. She was my red muse, after all, though she liked my blues. She opened her eyes when I took off her bra, looking directly into mine, which could suddenly see beyond her breasts into her heart. As I type these words and the entire story, I can still see her eyes. They’re one of her many features that immediately caught my heart. Her mouth was the second. Diminutive in size like half an average mouth. Hers, however, was extraordinarily in tune with both her heart and mine. When it opened, even if only to utter a word or send me a smile, I was compelled as if by Jove to kiss her, being then unable to let go. My muse possessed my soul. Not only the music this time, but whatever kept me alive.

I thanked her bra for keeping her breasts somewhat protected from the Sun and every other potential affront. Breasts that I want to remember up until they throw my body into the ground. Her nipples were like a second pair of eyes, except that I followed them wherever they turned. I felt mesmerized by them. I loved every part of her breasts and her, and I’ve just started. Her entire head was and remains a masterpiece. Every time that I look at it in one of her pictures, I have to write a sonnet. At this rate, I will have written her more sonnets than Shakespeare by the middle of next year. You’d think that I’d avoid looking at her pictures as to forego composing her a sonnet, but I keep looking and looking. Her pictures are on my desktop screen. Even now as I’m typing all these words, which also come from her. She’s like a drug. A very good love potion, often producing palpitations and a variety of heart skips.

I couldn’t let go of her head. It contained two of her best parts. Both her eyes and her mouth. I was also fond of her ears that listened to everything my heart could sing. Because of her, I could sing anything, even some Vitas in Russian. I’ve loved before, but this kind of love, passionate without remorse, only happens in fiction or on the moons of Jupiter and perhaps Saturn. Even her cheeks were tasty when my tongue met them. As for her nose, it was exactly suited for her face, as if it had evolved only for her, my lovely muse, mon vrai amour (my real love). Crissey, my love. I could sleep with my nose in her hair. I think that I once did when she had finally come to see me in the flesh. It happened during her first visit. She was asleep and I kept caressing and smelling her hair until I fell asleep.

Buttocks isn’t the right word to describe what she has. I call them fesses, the French equivalent, or her bouncing clouds. They’re her only parts that I always desire to bite, with love, of course, and I could see myself doing it till the end of my time, that is if it wasn’t for her anus and her pussy. Two stupendous apertures that required my full attention as soon as I saw one of them, and here I was looking at both. If there’s a heaven, I’m sure we got it wrong. My heaven would feature as many of my muses as there are angels.

Meeting her for the first time was an ordeal for my heart, and the second time wasn’t any better. Now, in a hotel room in another country, I felt that we were on the Moon. It only took a few seconds and I was gone to my heaven which happened to be her. All of her. Every particle is lucky to be part of her. I wished I could be one of her happy tears, or a drop of sweat on her forehead, or a bead of the sweet nectar that I found there. You know where.

“Please, stop,” she suddenly said. “I’m sorry but I think that I’m having my period,” she continued.

That’s OK, I replied. I’m not afraid of your blood. I know that it’s red like mine, but it’s blue inside, and blue is the sky, and who in their right mind would avoid the sky. I love everything about you, even your blood and your period.

“Are you sure?”

Is the sky blue? Well, not right now. It’s night outside. But it’s blue on the other side of the world, and that’s enough for me until morning.

“I love you with all my heart. Is there anything else you want to have?” she then asked, lowering her beautiful eyes.

She knew what I wanted but she couldn’t just give it to me even if she loved me more than her life. Well, I wouldn’t go that far. She has a family that she loves. I have none. Well, there are some, but I don’t give a damn. I’m as independent as a cat that has a home. But even a cat needs love. And she was all the love that I could afford to love in return. I still went ahead and said it, so as not to regret one miserable day that I had the chance to say it and didn’t. I want to marry you until my last breath, and even after that if I happen to be wrong and there’s an afterlife, I solemnly declared.

She remained silent for a few moments before replying with these words: “I never thought that love could be so afflicting. I love you with all my heart. I feel it in my flesh when I read our words. Any other love that I feel towards any other is different and doesn’t come from the same part of my heart. I look at you and I see a man emptying his love onto my whole being, and you always have more. Where do you keep it? Where does it come from, all this abundance of love?”

It was a hard answer to consider. How could I reply to such a question? I feel it coming from my heart, I suddenly said. Yet I know that it comes from my brain. It must be in the blood, then, which circulates incessantly through the heart. Love is carried in the blood. And you thought that I would be inconvenienced by the blood from your period, which contains so much love, for me.

She had a few tears in her eyes, as I do, typing this last part. I felt my love for her in the tips of my fingers that were typing all these words. The heart is simply flooded with blood all the time. It’s a blood pump. And thus, we feel love in the heart. But in reality, I still suppose, since blood is everywhere, we can love with every other part, not only the heart. And again, it’s not even the heart. It’s the blood. So, when you give some of your blood, you’re also giving some of your love.

I always wondered if one could really love someone to death. I have no statistics and I don’t bet. Nothing! Not even the lottery. And yet, I’ll say that such a love exists and that it can kill if it’s not satisfied by touch. One of them will always die, and it can be either. How long before it can happen? I don’t know but we could all take a guess. It’s a safe bet. I would say a year. Maybe two. I know someone who thinks that such a love could wait unhindered for twenty years. All I can say to that is no!

I made love to her throughout the night. We looked at the Moon and made love. I looked at her eyes and we made love. She opened her mouth and we made love. She caressed one of her breasts and I caressed the other one. I believe in equality for all. Even if there are only two. I put my hand between her thighs and she avowed her love. She wanted to hold my prick but I refused. She knew why but protested. I told her, next time, and the night is still young. And there’s also tomorrow. I’m staying here as long as I can.

“You can’t!” she replied. “And you know why,” she continued.

I won’t contact you. You’ll come to see me when you can. Even if only once a year. But a full weekend. I would be exploding with love. And if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll see you more often. You’ll always be welcome into my life, especially that you carry me in your blood.

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