Abuse by the Muse

Abuse by the Muse,

Chapter Three: "He's Real No-Hair Man."

Thanks again to MikePaulWrites for his generosity and editing skills.

My usual disclaimer: There's infidelity in this story, flagrant and, perhaps, infuriating. And there is not a hint of revenge or retribution of any kind. If that disturbs you, if you need to see the offender get what's coming to her, please read no further. You'll find no misogyny, no "BTB" here.

Chapter Three:

"No, no, not that one!"

Tippi was hunched over my shoulder as I selected a picture from my computer's photo library for my Bumble profile. Our messy home office was crowded with two desks, each holding our respective laptops. Two framed corkboards hung on the wall. My board was a ragged display of photos and messages, an urgent "to do" unopened. My desk was a jumble of unopened correspondence stacked in ragged piles, web designs I had printed out, scraps of paper on which I had sketched or doodled. Tippi's desk and wallboard were both neat and precisely organized, models of tidy Scandinavian order.

My elbows leaned upon my desk. Tippi had rolled her chair over beside me as I scrolled through hundreds of photos I'd saved over the years. The shot I'd landed upon was a headshot that had been taken at work for my Linked-In profile, a good likeness, I thought, albeit a bit stiff.

"Guys have no idea of what makes them attractive to women," she chided. "Trust me, this photo is not going to get you laid."

I deleted that picture and allowed her to reach over my shoulder to scroll through the file. Lots of photos of the two of us together. Family photos. Photos from school days. She finally landed on a shot she'd taken of me with Rufus, the old dog we'd had when we were first married, a goofy lab mix who died just one year ago. His passing left us both a little raw, and though we discussed finding a new pet, we never quite got past grieving for Rufus. Loyalty to his memory dictated that we wait just a little while longer.

Loyalty was a core value for me: loyalty to Rufus our late pet labrador, loyalty to my adulterous wife.

Partnering with my wife in my effort to find another woman, a woman with whom I'd be sharing a purely sexual relationship, felt unnatural, almost surreal, but we'd arrived at this place after much hand wringing and after Tippi had met up with Tyler for marathon sex sessions on at least three occasions. Maybe more. I could no longer be certain that she was telling me the truth.

After the night of the storm, Tyler had begun coming to our home to pose for Tippi's painting. On a Wednesday of the following week, upon coming home from work, I saw Tyler's Corvette convertible parked on the street right outside our door. I walked inside the house and called for Tippi. When she didn't respond, I stepped over to the garage entrance and found her working in her painter's smock, mixing some paint with damask varnish, linseed oil and turpentine, her favorite oil medium. Tyler was sprawled, naked, on the couch, and I could see that she was working on that large canvas I had rescued from the storm. Tyler's cock was flopped atop his stomach, not as large as an elephant's trunk, but formidable, certainly larger than mine. I did a double-take as I noticed its dark purple helmet-glans, the size and color of an Italian plum and, which even in its semi-flaccid state, suggested something like a face on its surface.

Tippi greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. Tyler made no effort to cover himself. He looked up at me, grinning. "Hey, Drew," how you doing?"

"Tyler came by to pose for this part of the painting," Tippi explained. It pissed me off to see them acting with such easy intimacy, such seeming nonchalance. Although she sometimes used reference photographs as a sort of instantaneous sketch pad, Tippi preferred to work from drawings of live subjects, using photos only for refining her image. It wasn't easy for Tippi to find good models for her paintings. Most amateur models became nervous when they were looked at intensely. They twitched, shifted, grew tired and impatient. Whenever possible, Tippi liked to initiate the first stage of her work with professional models who could hold their poses. Tyler, as Tippi later explained, was an exception. His impatience was outweighed by his intense narcissism. He loved to be looked at, preened under her gaze.

"I'll see you in the house," said Tippi. I nodded at Tyler and grunted, but said nothing.

A few days later, I came home a little earlier than usual, arriving to find out that Tippi was preparing to leave. I had climbed the carpeted stairway to our bedroom where she was moving purposefully around. She'd turned and looked over her shoulder at me as I walked through the bedroom door but didn't quite meet my gaze. I noticed she was wearing a skirt she hadn't worn in over a year along with a lacy top I'd bought for her two Christmas's ago. Tippi was a blue-jeans woman. She hardly ever wore things like that.

Her movements were hesitant, uncharacteristically jerky as she moved about the room. She exuded nervous energy, almost a sense of panic as I moved behind her.

"You're home early," she managed.

"I finished a project, thought I'd take off and maybe take you out for dinner, but it seems like you have other plans."

Standing just a few feet away, I scanned her look, appraising her as if she were a stranger. I noticed she was wearing makeup, lipstick and just enough yeshadow and mascara to accent her blue eyes. God, she looked amazing. And a sadness washed over me as I surmised that her clothes, her make-up, her thoughts were not for me.

Her voice became very small, almost a whisper. "Please don't hate me, Drew. I know I'm a terrible wife, but I swear I still love you. I need to work this out for a little longer, to play it out and find a way to finish it. Please be patient with me. I'm having dinner with Tyler. I want to experience him, to observe him in a variety of situations. It's just part of that muse dynamic. Please understand that it has nothing to do with us."

The feeling inside me was hard to process, let alone articulate. There was jealousy and there was anger; there was deep love and a profound sadness. And there was an overriding sense of helplessness. I love this woman and wasn't willing to let her go. But the pain she was inflicting was incredibly hard to bear. At that moment, I expressed none of those things.

She was wrong. It had plenty to do with us. I was having trouble setting boundaries because every time I'd determine where the lines were, she crossed over them.

"Are you coming home tonight?" I asked. It was closer to a demand than a question.

"Yes," she answered. "Definitely yes. Tyler just needed a friend to go with him to a business reception. It's like an awards dinner of some sort for General Motors dealers from around the state. It's the first event of this sort he's attended since he broke up with Becca, and he didn't want to go alone. And I wanted some time to watch him in another setting, to see him in a context other than the studio, to capture a little more of his personality. It'll help with my paintings. Please understand. Just dinner and the reception: there'll be nothing more to it. But I may be a little late, so please don't wait up for me."

She stepped close to me and threw her arms around my waist.

"I love you so much and I don't want to lose you. I know this business with Tyler is crazy. And I know how hard this is for you. I need to make you understand how much it means to me that you've given me some space to work out this insane artist-muse obsession. Most men wouldn't do that. You're amazing, Drew, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you, love you, respect your patience and strength."

And then she walked away, got into her car, and drove off. Despite her assurances to the contrary, something told me that lacy top and pretty skirt would be coming off long before she returned to me that night. I was pretty sure that she would spend part of that night fucking her boyfriend. Or her muse. Whatever she wanted to call him. He was her fuck buddy, either way.

I walked up the stairs to our bedroom and sat on her side of the mattress. I don't know how long I just sat there, staring at the wall, my mind blank, then filling with black ink, a kind of darkness I had never experienced before. It was beyond sadness. This must be what depression feels like, I thought. And I wondered if it went on forever.

I watched a little TV, read for an hour, before dozing for a little while in our bed, but real sleep was impossible. The walls seemed to close in aroundme, and every sound from outside reverberated through the house. I couldn't help but listen to the whoosh of the cars rolling slowly down our street, my ears attuned to the quiet sound of

Tippi's hybrid Honda, my mind wandering, hoping she'd come home early. A sense of loneliness took over my mind and body, a feeling so strong I perceived it as physical presence, an animal sitting on my chest, pressing down, crushing me with its weight. I started to masturbate but couldn't work up any enthusiasm for the effort. I was certainly horny, but I wanted something more than self-gratification.

I awoke every 15 minutes to check the clock beside my side of the bed. Midnight, 1:00 a.m., 1:30 a.m. Still no Tippi. Just after 2:00 a.m. I heard the front door open and Tippi's footsteps padding softly up the stairs. She paused outside our bedroom door and, in a considerate gesture, removed most of her clothes so as not to wake me. She tiptoed into our bedroom and, even in the faint light shining into our room from the streetlight outside, I could see that she was still wearing lingerie, a minimalist black bra and panty set that I hadn't seen when I came home and found her decked out for her date with Tyler. She looked hot in those things, and it stung me to realize that I had never seen them before, she had never worn anything like that for me. I considered letting her believe I was asleep, but a mixture of jealousy and lust overruled that thought.

"How was the reception?" I asked. "Are you OK?"

Tippi took a moment to respond. "I'm fine, Drew. But I really don't want to talk about it. Is that all right? I won't even try to conceal anything or make excuses. I'm sure you're wondering, so yes, I had sex with him again. I'm sorry."

The sight of my wife in those sexy underthings, the scent of her body, still reeking of musk and the combined sweat of herself and her lover, an unmistakable smell of sex, had begun to arouse me to a level that was almost verging on pain. The arousal was mixed with a lightheadedness, almost a dizziness, a sense of unreality. Was this really happening to me? And was I really accepting it? My neediness overcame my anger and hurt. I was horny and I didn't mind showing it.

"Okay, I answered, standing up, pulling off my pajama bottoms and reaching out to embrace her. "But I need something from you tonight. Please."

Tippi was standing in front of the full-length mirror attached to the back of our bedroom door. I spun her around so she was facing the mirror and began to caress her, my hands moving from her shoulders down across her breasts, my hips pushing forward against her ass, my aroused penis pushing against her. She resisted as I slipped my hand beneath the lace of her panties, grasping my wrist and holding it still.

"I need a shower, Drew. And I'm so, so tired tonight. And to be completely honest, my pussy is very sore. He fucked me three times, really hard."

I felt as if my face had been slapped. I didn't want to show it. I didn't want her to feel pity, but I couldn't stop my eyes from welling up in tears.

"You can't just shut me out, Tippi. I have needs, too."

Tippi sighed and pushed back against me. She relaxed her grip on my hand and allowed my fingers down to her vulva. It felt different, It took a moment for me to realize it, to process the sensation. There was no hair on her pussy!

"What the fuck, Tippi!" I half-shouted. "What happened to your pubic hair?"

In her smallest voice, Tippi told me. "He made me shave it," she admitted. "He wanted to watch me do it."

"And you just did what you were told? What the fuck has come over you?

My middle finger began to trace the outline of her lips, lightly, so lightly, to avoid causing pain to her sore pussy. I needed to acquaint myself with my wife's newly remodeled genitalia. We both watched our movements in the mirror, and I carefully examined the changing expression on her face. As my finger traced the outlines of her vaginal lips, my hand pressed against her bald mound. Tippi shivered as she leaned back against me. "You're tickling," she said. But I didn't want to stop. I'd miss the bush, I thought, but this was not so bad. Skin so smooth, so satin-like. So warm and wet. And damn it, I thought, so freshly fucked.

"Please," I said. "I need to feel like you're still my wife."

She sighed and offered a quiet nod of her head. "I understand. I know I'm asking you for a lot. I know it's so unfair and I need you to know how much I love you, how much I appreciate the impossible situation I've made for us. I'm begging you to be patient with me for just a little while. I know I keep telling you this, but it's true. I'll come back to you, to us soon. I promise. And I'll make it up to you, all of it, whatever it takes. But for now, let's just move on together like this."

She reached between her legs grasped my cock, not guiding it into her pussy, but positioning it between her legs flat against her vulva. She began to masturbate me with both her hand and the sides of her lean and sinewy thighs, the soft velvet skin still slippery with her juices and the dribble of Tyler's semen. Her hand pressed the top of my cock against her clit as she rocked back and forth. My face was reflected in the mirror behind hers and she watched me, her eyes widening, her mouth curled into a half-smile. I wanted to see love, arousal, desire but instead I saw only sympathy and perhaps a touch of impatience.

As I pumped my hips back and forth, I could see the head of my cock poking out from between her legs. I wanted so badly to enter her, but she kept a firm grip, and though I longed for the soft glove-like fit of her vagina, the friction my movement created was delicious in its own way. It took me less than five minutes before I felt that spasm coming on and I began to ejaculate, coming so hard that some of my semen sprayed the mirror we were facing, some just adding to the mix of fluids dribbling down her long lean legs. I was loud as I came and Tippi pressed my cock hard against her pussy. I shouted. She moaned. We were both panting from our exertion.

"Did you come, Tippi?"

"No, honey, but it's okay," she answered. "I had three orgasms earlier tonight. I'm really pooped." Her words hung in the air as I slumped against her shoulders.

"Oooh, I'm sorry," she whispered. "That came out all wrong. It's always good for me with you, Drew. I love making you come."

We moved over to our bed and as we lay down on top of the blankets, I held her in my arms, my hand tracing the contours of her body as she rested on her side. I felt the familiar delicate ridges of her ribs, the rise of her hip, the slope of her long lean thighs.

I was becoming aroused again.

Her hand brushed against my erection and she took it in her palm, clasping her fingers around it and squeezing it gently.

"I love the ways you give me orgasms, Tippi but it's been weeks since we had real sex. We haven't fucked since you came home from that reunion."

"I know, sweetie."

"And you wouldn't let me in just now when we were in front of the mirror," It was both a statement and a question.

"I'm a mess down there and my pussy can't handle any more tonight. I'm sorry to have to tell you that, but it's true."

"Is that the only reason, Tippi?"

She was quiet for a long moment. And even in the semi-darkness, I could tell she was avoiding my gaze, her face turned downward.

Tippi grasped my cock in her hand and began to gently stroke it, expertly, with just the right amount of pressure. "I love you, Drew," she whispered, "You know I do. but Tyler made me promise not to let you fuck me."

She squirmed away from me, just a few inches, as if she were expecting a sharp response.

"What?" My voice rose a few decibels. I couldn't believe what my wife was telling me.

"You're my wife, not his! That motherfucker!"

"It's all a part of this weirdness, sweetie. I don't understand it myself. The artist-muse thing is tricky: it's traditionally been guys controlling and obsessing over women. Think about Picasso and his Dora Maar, Dali and his Gala. They seemed to suck the inspiration out of their women, painting them, fucking them, obsessing over them. There's a vampire aspect to it. It's like I'm forcing the inspiration out of Tyler while we're together, drawing it out, lapping it up, whether it's when he poses or when we're fucking. It's hard to explain because I really don't understand it myself. But I know that If I'm going to do this, allow myself to work out this fantasy, this obsession, I have to do it completely. He said I can give you oral sex, hand jobs, anything like that. But if I want him for my muse, I can't fuck you. I'm sorry."

"It's very temporary--you can be sure of that-- just until I finish this cycle of paintings. I promise. Give me just another month or two to get through it. I promise I'll make it up to you. You're still the only one I really love. And I love you even more for your patience and understanding."

Even after that intense orgasm, I felt myself stirring once again, I needed another round. I kissed her neck, brushed my tongue against her ear and kissed her lips, feeling them part to allow our tongues to touch and swirl around each other. God, I loved the taste of her mouth. My right hand reached between her legs, sliding slowly up her thigh as she continued to work my cock, her hand subtly corkscrewing around my shaft as she gently moved it up and down. She squirmed as I reached her panties, squeezing her thighs together and murmuring a complaint.

"Let this be just about you again, okay sweetie?" Tippi reached across me and opened the drawer of my nightstand. She withdrew a bottle of "Fuck Water," a brand of silicon lube. She spread it evenly on her right hand and reached for my cock.

She was an expert masturbatrix. Those long fingers, the hand that wielded the paint brush so skillfully, could make me gasp in ecstasy, but on this night, I wanted, needed, something more than a passive hand job. I don't know why I had agreed to go along with this strange arrangement, but even if I allowed her to deny me penetrative sex, I couldn't be completely passive.

"I need to feel you, Tippi. Please don't shut me out completely."

She sighed and, slowly, allowed her thighs to part.

My hand moved gently along her smooth-shaven vulva, feeling its moisture, the seepage from her vagina. She didn't shave for me, I thought., And she wasn't wet for me, either. The damp I was feeling was the residue of her fuck session with Tyler, still seeping from her vagina. She was still filled with his semen. She squirmed as I inserted a finger inside her and started to pull her hips away.

"Please," I said. Wordlessly, she gave her assent, moving her hips closer to me even as her hand kept up its pumping motion. I curled my finger into a crook-like shape, exploring the smooth, wet vaginal walls, acutely aware that the liquid warmth of her pussy included the residue of another man's ejaculate. The thought inspired both wild arousal and a deep sadness.

Her hand quickened its pace on my penis, expertly rubbing and tugging my glans, and I began to softly moan. "Ohmygod, Tippi." I clutched her shoulders as my cock began to spurt in her hand, ropes of semen splashing on her belly. And then I just laid there, breathing hard as her hand gripped my deflating cock, all motion ceased except for the subtle tightening of her fingers. It wasn't the same as when we finished fucking and I remained on top and inside her in blissful stillness, but it was something.