Excerpt: The Muse Revisited

This month’s excerpt from The Muse Revisited is a short story from Volume 1:, entitled Muriel the Magnificent.

Written in 2000 expressly for The New English Library Book of Internet Stories; Edited by Maxim Jakubowski; Published by Hodder and Stoughton UK

Reprinted in Best New Erotica 2001, Published by Constable & Robinson UK

This story contains sexually explicit material that will not be suitable for all readers.


Muriel the Magnificent

When Muriel Bing was seven years old, in the course of a single Saturday afternoon, something happened that shifted the topography of her secret inner landscape forever. The day had started out harmless enough: an afternoon in late spring, close to the end of her second grade school year. In high spirits, she and Tommy Decker, the little brown-haired boy whose family’s backyard adjoined hers, played together on her brightly colored swing set. Higher and higher they swung, until Tommy wagered with Muriel: “I’ll bet you can’t swing as high as me and jump when I yell ‘jump.’”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, you can’t.”

“I can, too!”

“Okay,” hollered Tommy, the bet underway. “The loser has to do whatever the winner says,” he shouted.

Muriel’s sturdy legs pumped determinedly as her swing kept pace with Tommy’s. Her long auburn braids flying out behind her on the upswing, then smacking lightly against her shoulders as she swung down and back. Over and over, higher she climbed, until Muriel had reached an exhilarating height.

“Now!” Tommy Decker cried, “Jump!” as he flung himself free of the swing, soaring several feet out over the small backyard, landing in a tumble on the cool green grass, his empty swing chink-chinking to a sudden halt behind him.

Muriel, however, hadn’t jumped. The sheer height she’d reached had been too daunting. When it came time for her fingers to release their tight grip on the chains of her high-flying swing, when she’d heard Tommy’s voice suddenly shout ‘jump’ and her eyes had taken in the full scope of empty sky she’d be forced to sail out in to and the hard expanse of ground beneath her, Muriel’s bowels had clenched tight. She’d been too timid to jump.

Her feet dragged the swing to a stumbling stop. Tommy had already leapt to his feet and come running over, his eyes bright with triumph. “You lose, Muriel,” he cried gleefully. “I won. Now you have to do whatever I say!”

Tommy Decker was only one Decker from a veritable sea of Decker boys. Unlike the Bing family, the Deckers were Catholics who’d had nothing but sons. In the Decker house, there were always boys as far as Tommy’s blue eyes could see: in his bedroom at night there were boys, in the morning at the kitchen table, or in front of the television set when he came home from school–nothing but brothers. Tommy was drawn to Muriel Bing because she was an only child; a sweet, kind and smart little girl, but more because she was just that: a girl.

“Now you have to come behind the garage with me,” Tommy announced.

Bravely, Muriel slid off her swing, knowing Tommy was fully capable of making her do something awful. Once, the summer before, he’d plucked a carrot from her father’s vegetable patch, a carrot no bigger than Muriel’s pinkie, and had forced her to eat it, then and there, dirt and all. Another time, he’d made her shuck unripe peas from their pods and eat them raw, giving her a churning stomach ache. Worse yet, Mr. Bing didn’t like Muriel and Tommy making a mess of his garden. He’d said as much, in no uncertain terms, on several occasions.

With a cursory glance back toward her house to see if anyone was watching her, Muriel followed Tommy behind the garage to her father’s vegetable patch, her childish curiosity outweighing her reluctance, as usual.

When the pair were safely ensconced between the row of hedges that lined the edge of the Decker yard, and the garden at the back of the Bing’s garage, Tommy told Muriel, “Pull down your pants.”

She was stunned. “What?”

“I said, pull down your pants. You have to do it because you have to do anything I say.”

Muriel stared at Tommy uneasily and did nothing.

“Come on,” he persisted. “Do it. I just want to see.”

In an unfamiliar mix of interest and fear, Muriel did what Tommy wanted. She unzipped her pants, tugging them down just a little bit.

“Those, too,” he insisted, pointing at her cotton underpants.

Muriel hesitated, “No,” she refused quietly.

“Come on, Muriel, just for one second. Just until I count ‘one Mississippi’ then you can pull them back up, okay?”

Muriel considered Tommy’s offer, her cautious hesitation giving way to a growing intrigue. She liked the way it felt, Tommy staring at her underpants in earnest, she suddenly felt eager to show him what she knew the sisterless boy wanted to see. When she tugged her underpants down just enough to reveal her smooth mound and the pouting cleft at its base, the expression of wonder on Tommy’s face made Muriel almost burst with pride.

He seemed so entranced by the sight of the strange nakedness that peeked out from between Muriel’s legs, that Tommy forgot to count ‘one Mississippi.’ In fact, the two of them stood  transfixed by the magnetic pull between them for several uninterrupted moments. When they finally were interrupted, though, it happened in the worst possible way: an unsuspecting Mr. Bing rounded the corner of the garage.

“Muriel Bing, what do you think you’re doing?” he sputtered, as Tommy  Decker took off running for the relative safety of his own backyard.

Muriel’s seven-year-old mind knew instinctively that she had no satisfactory answer to her father’s question. “I’m not doing anything,” she replied weakly, hastily tugging her pants and underpants back up around her waist.

No sooner were her clothes in order, when Muriel’s father grabbed her abruptly by her little arm, escorting her up the yard to the house, in through the kitchen door, down the hallway and into her room.

“You know better than that, Muriel!” he practically shouted. “What was going on out there?”

“Nothing,” she replied timidly, realizing in a panic that the most dreaded punishment was befalling her. The pants and underpants she’d pulled up to her waist only moments before, were coming down again, quickly, and her father was pulling her over his knee.

“Daddy don’t!” she cried feebly, as the spanking got underway. But there was no stopping Mr. Bing. The smacks rained down on Muriel’s bare bottom furiously, as he unleashed a litany of reasons why what Muriel had done was bad, bad, bad.

This degree of anger was uncommon in Muriel’s father and she was unnerved by it. It wasn’t so much the severity of the spanking that wounded her, she was pierced to the core by the sound of his words.

“I’m thoroughly ashamed of you, Muriel,” he declared, as he unceremoniously yanked her from his lap when the spanking was over. “What made you do a dirty thing like that?”

He stood her helplessly in front of him while he continued to lecture her harshly about the wickedness of her immodesty. Throughout the entire scolding, poor Muriel’s pants remained around her knees. The little mound whose unveiling had so recently filled her with pride was uncomfortably on display and now serving as the obtrusive source of her newfound shame.

*     *     *

At thirty-seven, Muriel Bing, Esquire, was as bony as a little bird; her modest breasts, her slender waist and narrow hips, always concealed beneath the finely tailored yet conservative dress suits she wore everyday to the law office, where she specialized in real estate. She wore simple silk blouses, buttoned to her throat, and durable navy pumps on her small, sturdy feet.

Muriel lived alone in a well-appointed apartment in mid-town Manhattan and almost never dated. She was no longer a virgin–she wasn’t as pathetic as that–still she had become an expert at repressing any unseemly urges to satisfy her drives, not just the biological urges, but the appetites of her very senses. She ate plain, unseasoned foods cooked at home, almost never drank alcohol, not even wine, and her spotless apartment held no aromas of daily living except for the distinct odor of antibacterial cleanser.

The law firm where Muriel had been employed since she’d passed the New York Bar eleven years earlier, was a prestigious, well-equipped, state-of-the-art office on fifty-seventh street, just off fifth avenue. Each employee’s desk had the latest model computer. They were online, networked, firewalled, intranetted, and secure on their dedicated server. No software program could be accessed without a valid password. Outside meetings took place in the form of online video conferencing. Office email was monitored and noted in extensive personnel files.

At home, Muriel’s fondness for technology lagged far behind the firm’s. Until recently, she’d had a reasonably respectable computer, a modest printer, and the only software she’d deemed necessary was for word processing, which she did a great deal of late into the night. But gradually, the outside world had caught up with her. Only days before, Muriel had upgraded to a high-speed unit with all the frills, even free internet access–a needless temptation Muriel had previously withstood. The only email correspondence she engaged in was work-related and so it stayed on the computer at the firm. Still, acquiescing to the advancement of  technology into the privacy of her own home, Muriel logged on to the internet and set up her first personal account.

Her free internet access included the option of maintaining a small homepage. At first, she dismissed it out of hand, having no reason to display any part of her private life on something as public as a homepage. Yet, after some consideration, it occurred to Muriel that it could help advertise the law firm. She set about learning the software to upload a humble web page devoted to her occupation as real estate lawyer, listing her experience and the contact information of the office and nothing more.

It was quite late on a Friday evening when Muriel uploaded the newly created page to her allotted space on the server.

After she’d been alerted that the files had been sent successfully, she typed the URL of her homepage into the address locator and waited for her handiwork to load into her browser.

It seemed like she waited a long time. The simple page was loading very slowly, too slowly, as if it were laden with images or those space-consuming enhancements that frequently tried her patience on other web sites.

Muriel walked away from her computer and went to the kitchen to peruse the contents of her refrigerator. While the browser continued to load her homepage, Muriel reached for an apple and a diet ginger ale.

*     *     *

In a particularly hot pink hue, the words ‘Muriel the Magnificent’ blinked on and off incessantly on a pitch black background.

Muriel stared at her monitor, first in confusion, then in complete indignation, as JPEG after JPEG of a thoroughly naked woman, in all sorts of obscene poses, assaulted her vision. Clearly she had mistyped the URL. She checked the address in her browser against the address she’d been given by her service provider. It was the same.

Slightly panic stricken, since Muriel had no ready faculties for processing lascivious feelings and the lewd images veritably bursting before her eyes in a riotous array of digitized colors aroused something primitive in her, Muriel hurriedly closed the page and prepared to resend her files to the server.

Carefully, she re-entered the ftp information, being especially observant about entering her user name and password. When the files had again been successfully sent, Muriel re-typed her URL into the browser and loaded her homepage.

This time, in only a few seconds, the page had reloaded. ‘Muriel the Magnificent’ flashed merrily on the screen.

A decidedly buxom, fleshy, full-figured woman in a myriad of wide-spread poses, of bending-over poses, or poses where her substantial boobs were squeezed together tightly–these assorted sordid images greeted Muriel again.

It must have something to do with our names being similar, Muriel decided. Perhaps there was a mix-up on the server because of that.

Yet there was something oddly familiar about this other Muriel, with the teased auburn hair, the heavily made up eyes and glossy lips, wearing spiked heels and little else. Muriel scrolled down the page to the final photo: the voluptuous woman was bending over, lustily grabbing a sizable portion of her rear end in each of her well-manicured hands. Across the photo, just below a protuberance of shaved labial lips, the words “let’s make contact” flashed annoyingly, while pointing to an email link.

Muriel clicked on it, only to be more horrified when the preprogrammed email address turned out to be her own.

Should I? she wondered. If I do, what will I say?

Muriel didn’t want to make actual contact with this other Muriel, she only wanted to know where the email would ultimately arrive.

She typed the words  ‘testing 1,2,3’ into the body of the email and clicked ‘send,’ only to receive an email several moments later notifying her that her email was undeliverable as addressed.

“But how could I have received this email if my email address is incorrect?” Muriel demanded of her monitor in vain.

Anxiously, she dialed the number for twenty-four hour tech support. It was late enough on a Friday night that she wasn’t on hold for more than ten minutes. After having explained her peculiar problem to the tech support person, he offered to go to her homepage himself.

“There’s some information about a law firm,” he said. “And some resume or something for a real estate lawyer–is that what you’re getting?”

“That’s what I’d like to be getting,” Muriel whined incredulously, “but what I’m getting is pornography!”

The tech support person was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. There’s nothing pornographic about what I’m seeing here.”

As he read aloud, verbatim, the brief description of the law firm and work experiences Muriel had composed, Muriel was dumbfounded.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about all this pornography?!” By now, Muriel was nearly hysterical. “I want to see my homepage. What if other people see these disgusting photos and assume it’s me? That I’m that Muriel?”

Another uneasy silence came from the other end of the line. “I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t know what to tell you. Perhaps you should try to contact this other woman.”

“But her email address is the same as mine–and it doesn’t work!”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t work?”

“I tried sending an email to her, but it came back as undeliverable.”

“Well, maybe it’s a dead web site. It happens all the time.”

“No, you don’t understand. It’s my email address. It works just fine.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I really don’t know what else to tell you.” The tone of the young man’s voice was now edging into patronizing impatience.

Muriel slammed down the phone. “You useless piece of–” Then she fumed silently for several minutes over her first personal encounter with online tech support.

*     *     *

Muriel stood rigidly in the hot shower, letting the water blast down on the back of her neck, hoping it would soothe her agitated brain. Her eyes closed in defeat and she sighed.

I must have sounded completely insane, she realized, as her conversation with tech support reverberated in her head. What the hell is going on with that computer?

In a burst of rage, Muriel had shut down the machine, overwhelmed by the extent of her unmitigated confusion. She’d elected to give it up for the time being and prepare for bed. Her anger had followed her from room to room, as she’d switched off the lights, secured the apartment, stripped off her clothes and gotten into the shower, but she was determined not to let the anxiety follow her into bed. Muriel was prone to bouts of insomnia, a state of mind she dreaded.

In a white cotton nightgown and a pair of equally white cotton panties, Muriel slid into bed. The sheets felt cool against her skin. Muriel felt noticeably calmer. With luck, she would sleep.

At three a.m., Muriel’s eyes opened. She stared blankly into the darkness and the first thought that commanded her attention was this: why were so many grown women determined to look like parodies of little girls?

Muriel couldn’t help thinking about that other Muriel; Muriel the Magnificent, with her womanly figure and shaved labia. It was absurd looking.

Muriel snuggled more comfortably into her pillow. Her hand absently playing at the stray strands of pubic hairs that poked through the leg bands of her cotton panties. As far back as she could remember, Muriel had had a generous thatch of dark brown pubic hair. She couldn’t recall a time when she didn’t have it.

Wait, she thought, remembering the Tommy Decker incident. But in an instant her mind skittered clear of the discomforting memory, and soon enough Muriel Bing, Esquire, was sound asleep.

*     *     *

On Saturday morning, Muriel slept in. It was uncharacteristic of her to even remotely surrender to the lure of sloth. However, her bed felt so comfortable, a cool breeze blowing in gently over the blankets, and a bird warbling merrily on a sill across the airshaft, that Muriel was lulled back to sleep before she knew it. When she finally roused herself, it was nearly noon.

She sat lazily on the edge of her bed, looking down at her loose-fitting nightgown, her skinny legs. The images of the other Muriel leapt to her consciousness.

How would it feel to be so fleshy? she wondered. What would it be like to always have one’s boobs in one’s peripheral vision?

She tugged open the top of her nightgown and stared down at her modest breasts. She tried squeezing them together in an unsuccessful attempt to create cleavage. She eyed her flat stomach, too. Then she noticed with interest how her cotton panties covered her slightly protruding mound so smoothly. She wondered what she looked like down there, under all that hair. And this time when her mind served her up the memory of Tommy Decker, she let it linger there.

“What’s with me today?” she muttered, feeling her hormones beginning to stir. Then she realized she was thinking about her computer, about how easily salacious images could be summoned from it. Why not? she thought.

She didn’t even put on the coffee pot. She went straight to her computer and booted it up. She got online and went directly to the images of Muriel the Magnificent. This time, she studied the images intently. She found herself especially intrigued by the photos of Muriel spread wide, where every labial fold was blatantly revealed. There was one shot in particular where Muriel held her spread knees up to her breasts. Her tummy bulged enticingly in this position and then the smooth-shaven vulva seemed somehow more garish, even the anus was visible.

“There’s something really filthy looking about that,” Muriel said quietly, realizing that her pulse had quickened.

As she studied the rest of the images, she fondled her nipples through the material of her nightgown. Then she discovered that the crotch of her panties was soaking.

“Jesus,” she sighed. “Enough!” She closed down the browser and got off line.

Muriel was too distracted now to make coffee. She decided to go out for a cup instead. She got dressed and went down to the corner cafe. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a hint of spring in the air. Muriel surprised herself again, this time by ordering a double latte and, at the last minute, adding a cream filled, chocolate-iced doughnut to her order! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted a doughnut and now, suddenly, she craved it.

Muriel sat down at a small table in front of the window and watched the people on the street walk briskly past. As her teeth sunk into the gooey pastry, her mouth filling with the rich flavor of fats and sugar, Muriel barely suppressed an audible moan. It was delicious, it was the best doughnut Muriel could remember tasting. She made a mental note to have breakfast out more often.

She shifted in the seat and caught the scent of herself. She was still wet between her legs. As she drank her double latte, her mind filled with pictures of the other Muriel’s shaved pussy and spread legs. She watched the girls walking past the window and wondered which ones had shaved pussies concealed beneath their jeans or under their dresses.

This is crazy, she thought. Still she loved the feeling of surrendering to the lusty pictures filling her head. She felt hypnotized. Before she knew it, her mind was made up. She tossed her empty cup into the trash can and headed home to her apartment, to her bathroom, where she was determined she would shave herself.

*     *     *

Muriel stripped naked and sat on the edge of her tub. By now, she was so aroused between her legs that even something as light as shaving foam felt incredibly exciting. The steel blade, repeatedly stroking her swollen mound, caressing it, revealing more and more of her increasing nakedness, drove Muriel to ecstasy. When she washed away the final residue and admired her handiwork in the mirror, she was thoroughly enchanted with the new vision of herself.  She remained naked the rest of the afternoon, studying herself admiringly in the mirror, adopting many provocative poses, masturbating herself to orgasm seven times. When she had finally exhausted herself, she collapsed on her bed and stared up at the ceiling.

What good is it to look so inviting if there’s no one around to appreciate it? she wondered, coming peculiarly close to admitting that she wanted a lover.

Suddenly, Muriel realized she was starving. She pulled on some clothes and headed outside for dinner. She chose a local Italian trattoria, an establishment that had been in her neighborhood for years but which she had never once stepped inside.

It was early enough on a Saturday evening that the host was able to accommodate a single diner with no reservation without much difficulty. He showed Muriel to a small table in the corner. The restaurant was dimly lit, a single votive flickering seductively on every table, Frank Sinatra crooning out from the speakers.

“Something to drink before dinner?”

Muriel looked up at the waiter as if in a trance. The warm timbre of his masculine voice had melted into her ears. His dark eyes were beautiful, his shoulder-length black hair pulled into a neat ponytail behind his head. Suddenly Muriel wanted wine. Red wine. The best vintage. Maybe even a whole bottle if they wouldn’t serve her the best vintage by the glass. She’d drink what she wanted, without concerning herself about being wasteful for a change.

When the waiter returned with the bottle of wine, Muriel noticed for the first time that he was probably much younger than she, but she didn’t care. She remained entranced. As he poured her a glass to taste, he seemed to eye her seductively, making Muriel wonder if he could smell her from where he was standing. She found herself hoping he could. Soon a busboy hovered around her with a basket of bread, then another came near to pour her some water. A different waiter came by for her food order, and, later, the host was back to see how she was enjoying her meal.

She felt flushed. Never had Muriel been surrounded by so many attentive and attractive men. She returned to her apartment reeling from the thought of so much seemingly available masculinity in the world.

She couldn’t resist booting up the computer one more time.

*     *     *

The page was back to loading slowly, but within a few moments, ‘Muriel the Magnificent’ was flashing on her monitor once again. Only this time, the selection of JPEGS had changed. Muriel felt slightly alarmed: this was an active web page after all. Who was this other Muriel whom she was so voyeuristically enjoying?

She studied the new photos with acute interest, for now Muriel the Magnificent was no longer solo, she had a male companion–one who was remarkably endowed. In one photo, the companion stood behind her, clutching two good-sized handfuls of Muriel’s boobs, while his stiff erection poked up between Muriel’s spread legs. The images became more provocative as the page continued to load. In fact, in one photo after another, a purely pornographic tryst between two rambunctious lovers was thoroughly exposed.

Oh god, this is what I want, thought Muriel deliriously, as picture after picture assailed her eyes and her fingers worked tirelessly down under her skirt.

The male companion looked satisfyingly familiar–much like the waiter at the trattoria who had poured Muriel her wine, who had kept her glass enticingly filled throughout the course of her incredible meal. The same waiter who had eyed her knowingly, as if he were ready to scoop up a bit of her smell with his fingers; as if he were aching to taste her.

In one photo, the lovers were passionately entwined, their copulating genitals readily captured by the camera’s lens. Another pose illustrated why Muriel was so magnificent: her lover’s substantial shaft filled her mouth to capacity. There were still more shots of the lovers performing intercourse in every position. The final parting shot, of course, was a daunting close-up of Muriel’s snug anus stretching to accommodate every thick inch of her companion’s probing tool.

When the final image loaded in front of Muriel’s eager eyes, she succumbed to another orgasm. Her eighth for the day–by far, a personal record. Muriel forced herself to shut down the computer and find her way to a hot shower. But what a glorious day it had been.

*     *     *

Later that night, Muriel couldn’t sleep. She felt too keyed-up. Finally she gave up any pretense of drifting off to slumber. She got out of bed and went in to the dark living room. Clad in her white cotton nightgown and white cotton panties, she sat on her open window sill in the cool night air and watched an occasional taxi zip across the nearly-deserted street below. From where she sat, she could see the trattoria closing. It was nearing three a.m. The neon sign blinked off suddenly and then Muriel watched several of the employees exit the restaurant together. Most of them walked away from her building, but one walked in her direction. Muriel’s heart fluttered when she realized it was her favorite waiter.

“Hey,” she called out quietly, surprising even herself. “Hey, you–hi!”

The young man looked around curiously.

“Up here.”

“Hello,” he called back to her, seeming to recognize her immediately, even though it was dark. “What are you doing up? It’s so late.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He crossed the street and was now standing on the sidewalk three stories below her window. “I was just thinking about you,” he said, reaching into his bag and retrieving a half-empty re-corked bottle of red wine. “I swiped this from your table,” he called up to her, showing her the bottle. “I didn’t want it to go to waste, but it’s too good to drink alone, no?”

Muriel’s heart raced. She couldn’t believe it was happening. Her mouth opened and words came out of their own volition. “Why don’t you come up? I’ll buzz you in,” she offered.

“Okay,” he replied, seemingly unfazed by her ready acquiescence.

He must do this a lot, she thought, as she buzzed open the front door of her building and listened to his feet hurrying up the steps in the quiet stairwell. He sounded eager, perhaps taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached her floor, she stood in her open doorway waiting for him.

He eyed her thin cotton nightgown, her skinny legs and bare feet. He smiled, a little out of breath. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’m Antonio–from Canarsie.”

“I’m Muriel,” she replied.

“Well, Muriel,” he said, lifting the bottle once again from his satchel, “do you have any glasses or do you drink from the bottle?”

*     *     *

Antonio and Muriel sat together on the couch in her dark living room, a faint light shining in from the kitchen doorway. They were only on their first glass of the leftover wine when Antonio set his glass down on the coffee table and reached for Muriel’s, setting hers aside, too. He slid closer to her on the couch.

“You know, you look really inviting in that little nightie,” he began quietly. “Do you ask a lot of guys up here in the middle of the night?”

“No,” Muriel replied nervously. “I haven’t even been on a date in I don’t know how long.”

“Well, that would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“You have this air about you, you know? Like you’re really ready for it. Am I right?” he asked, his hand sliding up her thigh, under her nightgown, his fingertips brushing along the leg band of her panties.

Muriel caught her breath and didn’t reply.

“What’s the matter, Muriel?” Antonio taunted her, his warm hand slipping down between her loosely parted legs, then fleetingly across the crotch of her panties.

“Nothing,” she managed to answer.

“Are you sure?” he persisted, his other hand reaching for the back of her head now.

“I’m sure,” she said, her mouth finding his in the darkness and locking on.

He tasted like wine, cigarettes, coffee. He smelled of all the robust flavors of every Italian meal he’d been in the vicinity of at the trattoria. It was a heady mixture, an unfamiliar but not unpleasant scent for Muriel, because above all, he smelled like a man, and her entire body responded.

Antonio was all over her, his hands everywhere: under her nightie to fondle her nipples, then running through her hair as they continued to kiss, then down along her thighs, then grabbing her ass. Finally he tugged her panties down and discovered the smoothness of her shaved mound with his fingers.

“One of those naughty little girls, huh?” he whispered. “For some reason that doesn’t surprise me.”

In a mere moment, he had her panties completely off, her thighs spread and his face buried between her legs. It wasn’t the first time Muriel had felt a man’s mouth on her down there, but it was the first time she let herself enjoy it. It was exhilarating. Antonio’s tongue explored the swelling folds of her inner lips, then found her clitoris and lingered there while his fingers pushed into the sopping wetness of her hole.

She followed his lead effortlessly, her eager body assuming whatever position Antonio favored with only the slightest word of encouragement from him; positions she’d shied away from in the past because she’d feared the lewd postures too immodest, perhaps even degrading. But now, as Antonio mounted her from behind, her knees pulled up under herself while she gripped the arm of the couch and felt the plunging fullness of his erection filling her, she found herself suddenly grateful for the happy, inexplicable accident of Muriel the Magnificent and her lurid web page.

Remembering some of the images that had filled her head earlier, Muriel found herself taking the initiative now. She straddled Antonio, impaled herself upon his substantial shaft. She explored the length of him with her mouth, sucked his erection ardently. Then squatted over his face and let his tongue go at her again.

Finally she invited him into her bed, where it was easier for him to pound into her relentlessly from behind, his thumb sliding into her anus while his thick cock tormented her. Muriel couldn’t remember ever having felt so filled up, so completely appreciated, so thoroughly aroused. She took the force of his pounding as if she were born to be the receptacle of his fucking, his endless fucking, she never wanted to stop fucking…

Muriel and Antonio lay entwined on Muriel’s bed, the Sunday morning dawn inching imperceptibly closer outside her bedroom window.

“You’re too skinny, you know,” Antonio teased her quietly. “We’re going to have to fatten you up. Put some meat on your bones.”

It sounded to Muriel as if he had intentions of sticking around, that he didn’t consider them a one night stand. She wondered how she felt about that.

“You should come by the restaurant more often. I can slip you some food on the house,” he assured her, seeming to think she was thin because she couldn’t afford to eat. “What do you do, anyway, Muriel? Where do you work?”

“I’m a lawyer,” she replied.

“A lawyer? Then forget about it–you’re taking me to dinner.”

Antonio drifted to sleep while holding Muriel in his arms.

*     *     *

As soon as the sun poked through her curtains, Muriel’s eyes opened. Antonio was sound asleep. She was relieved that he hadn’t left her. Still it concerned her that she was plunging herself headlong into such unfamiliar territory. Muriel had never done anything so rash in her life. And it had all started with that web page. Her whole life had changed simply because she’d gotten online.

Then her curiosity got the best of her. It was uncanny how Muriel the Magnificent’s experiences were only one step ahead of her own. She studied Antonio while he slept, then decided to slip out of bed and consult her computer: what erotic pleasures did Sunday have in store? Would they include him? Was the other Muriel still cavorting wantonly with the other Antonio?

The computer booted up and Muriel got online. The web page loaded slowly, an indication that the JPEGS had probably changed. Muriel’s pulse quickened; what was she likely to see?

‘Muriel the Magnificent’ flashed again, as usual. The first image loaded. It was Muriel with the other Antonio, they were getting down to business. They were both facing the camera. Muriel was astride Antonio with her legs spread, making it plain that Antonio’s cock was deeply imbedded up her shaved hole. But just outside of the picture stood another man, his erect penis was clearly discernible in Muriel’s right hand.

“Oh my god,” she murmured breathlessly, as picture after picture revealed the other Muriel getting lewdly penetrated in every orifice by two good-looking men at once.

“Caught you!” Antonio blurted, startling Muriel, making her jump.

She whirled around in her chair to find him standing naked behind her. She blushed. “I didn’t know you were up.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. Everybody likes to look at dirty pictures. This is a nice computer,” he went on. “It looks brand new. So you’re online?”

“Yes,” Muriel answered sheepishly.

“Me, too. I spend a lot of time online. It’s the wave of the future, right? Soon enough everyone will be online.”

Muriel looked away from Antonio and stared at her monitor distractedly. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “Soon enough, everyone will be online.”

c: 2000; 2018 Marilyn Jaye Lewis

The world of author Marilyn Jaye Lewis

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