A Visit From My Muse

by Memory Heap

Copyright© 2012 by Memory Heap

Erotica Sex Story: One of my neighbours storms through my front door, indignantly complaining about some stories that she says I have written about her.  I invite her to discuss the issue. (The lack of codes is intentional to avoid giving the story away.)

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including NonConsensual   .

It was about 10:30 in the morning when my doorbell rang. Normally, I don't bother answering the door during the day. Anyone I know would call before just arriving at the house. A random arrival could only be someone trying to sell me something, or to convert me to their religion. I work from home, so I really hate disturbances of any kind during the day.

However, feeling in the mood for a fight, I opened the front door. One of my neighbours was standing there, clutching a sheaf of paper in one hand. "We have to talk," she said, and stormed into my front hall.

I lifted an eyebrow, and asked, "Oh? We do? Why?"

"You've been writing stories about me, and it's got to stop."

With a strong tone of disbelief, I asked, "I've been writing stories about you? What makes you think that?"

"Because of the way I've seen you looking at me, and the way your house faces only you could have seen some of things in these stories."

In truth, she was worth looking at. She was in her late-twenties or very early thirties, long auburn hair, and a very pretty face. From seeing her around the neighbourhood in shorts and t-shirts, and her workout gear, I knew she had very nice legs and a tight ass, as well as fairly large breasts. I had spoken to her on a few occasions, and had bumped into her at the grocery store a few times, so we knew each other slightly, a "nodding acquaintance" as it were. Today she was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, so those legs were on display again, and her breasts were bouncing a little from her indignation.

"That still doesn't explain why you think I've been writing stories about you."

"I sent you an anonymous e-mail asking a question about a bondage scene in one story. When you replied, you used an expression that I had only ever heard from you. You once told me you were from the East Coast, so I assumed that's where it came from."

This was an unexpected twist. The truth was, I had been writing stories about various sexual themes, and I had been using her as somewhat of a muse. Her physical attributes fit perfectly with the kind of women I was attracted to, and her proximity just made her easily available, at least visually. However, the web sites to which I posted those stories were pretty obscure, and I wouldn't have thought that someone who looked like a grown-up cheerleader would be perusing them. I had also taken great care to maintain my anonymity, but I guess I had slipped up along the way.

Thinking quickly, I raised an eyebrow and asked, "Bondage? You're into bondage? I wouldn't have thought you'd be the type."

"I like to be tied up and forced to do things ... damn it, that's not the point!" She stomped her foot, partly because she was still worked up about the stories, and partly because I had tricked her into admitting something. I liked what the stomping action did with her breasts.

An idea began to grow in the back of my mind. On my way to the door, I had noticed a pair of handcuffs hanging on the rack where I keep my car keys and house keys. I had been cleaning the lock on them a few days before, and had neglected to put them away.

I looked at her and said, "Why don't we sit down and talk about this?" I gestured toward my living room, and as she turned, I lifted the handcuffs off the rack, and made sure they were open. As we entered the living room, I reached out and grabbed one of her arms, quickly snapping the cuff around her wrist. Another quick grab, a click, and her arms were secured behind her back. The papers in her hand went flying as she finally realized what had happened, and started to struggle.

I grabbed her arms to calm her, and said, "Relax. Those aren't play cuffs, those are real, and you won't be getting out of them until I let you go. Now, get on your knees and be quiet for a minute." I pushed down firmly on her shoulders, and forced her to her knees. "Stay."

I went back out to the hallway, and closed and locked the front door. I didn't know if anyone else had seen her come here, but I figured we had a little time, and didn't want to be disturbed. When I returned to the living room, she looked up at me fearfully, and said, "What are you going to do to me?"

"You said you liked being tied up and forced to do things. Well, now you're tied up, and I'm going to force you do things." I laughed at my own joke, in a bit of a cruel manner, but the truth was that having her here like this was getting me turned on, and I could foresee some new fantasies developing to replace the old ones.

I grabbed her by the hair and forced her to knee-walk over to the couch as I sat down in front of her. She started to protest, so I slapped her back and forth across the face lightly. The violence shocked her, but she closed her mouth, except for a little whimper.

Without warning, I grabbed the hem of her t-shirt, and pulled it up over her head, and down her shackled arms. Her bra closed in front, so it quickly followed. Her breasts were magnificent—full and pretty, they bounced a little and had wonderful pink nipples, slightly larger than a pencil eraser. The air conditioning made them start to perk up a bit.

"Very nice," I said as I took one in each hand, bouncing them on my palms a little, and weighing them. I massaged each one firmly, watching as the nipples and areola started to bulge a little from the pressure. She squirmed a bit from the pain, and I glared at her, forcing her to be still again. "We could have some real fun with these."

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