Inspiration Ch. 01

A sweet voice sang, "I'm your biggest fan!" The voice sounded so innocent with a tad hint of naughty flirt.

His lips curved a slanted grin as he refused to lift his head or eyes to peer at the face that went with the voice. He asked, "And what is my biggest fan's name?" There was little flattery in his tone.

That sweet voice replied, "Sally."

His slanted grin somewhat faded, the name was so dull and average. His fingers gripped the pen then wisp the tip across the inside of his hard cover book, gave a simple written sentiment.

To my Biggest Fan Sally, thank you for reading, Sincerely Victor Hardway.

Victor Hardway, author and artist, slammed the book closed as he spread his lips into a fake smile.

He returned the book to a young woman's hands then took a quick glance up at her innocent face. He watched her blush as she gleamed with pride that his signature was in her hands. He noted, she had to be at least thirty-five years younger than him.

He gave no real notice to her giddy departure then continued signing book after book. Each book signed the same as the one before and as those that followed.

Most artists or authors enjoyed the presence of their devoted fans. Yet, for him every single signing had a significant mission. He was an artist, he sought that inspiration which typically started with a name followed by the name holder's appearance.

He was in need to begin another book, his publisher begged the continuance of his series. But with every signing throughout those months his desired inspiration never showed herself. So many bookstores in so many cities and not one individual gave inspiration. He was nearly starved for inspiration, desired the perfect inspirational name with the body to go with it.

Now his signing tour had come to an end within the metropolis he called home. And he had tired staring at the cover of his recent published works over and over.

The last signed book of that evening was slammed closed then handed to the purchaser. He leaned back, frustrated and disappointed from lack of true inspiration.

His eyes looked to the few remaining books to his right. His large dark eyes, expressive with intricate but subtle lines, studied the cover. The cover was his own design, created by his own hand and it was of the last inspirational beauty, she intricately bound with her unique name titling the book; Aurora.

He sighed.

Aurora was such an inspiration for his creative process. She remained poised in that intricate bound position as he sketched her image capturing every desired expression of her face and bound distortion of her body, the entire time a camera took hundreds of photos for further inspiration for the written context which filled three hundred plus pages with undoubted erotica.

Yes, he was a true artist who needed specific inspiration. The inspiration always came at random which he preferred but yet it hadn't come, walked his direction and gave a unique name.

He rose up from his chair, grabbed his gray leather trench and draped it over his arm. He snatched up his fedora and rested it properly atop his dark ebony hair subtly dashed at the temples with gray.

His eyes took a quick scan of the bookstore and noted, one more day and the tour was over.

He slightly huffed then left the table where he would again sit for a last time the following day.

His third night back at the loft apartment, in most circumstances it would be a pleasure to be home but the framed images of each of his several novels reminded him the lack of inspiration. Each image different. Each an interpretation of each lovely inspirational creature. Each one with a unique name.

On bare feet he paced the floor before the row of images as one hand held a glass of wine and right had a cigar tucked between its fingers. His mind continuously pleaded for that needed inspiration. He needed to create but without the proper specimen to bring forth the creativity, he felt flustered.

His dark eyes studied each piece of art.

Beautifully painted images of heavenly female bodies contorted in different bound positions. And to each of those women, he created a unique story to express the image. That was his process.

First the inspirational woman. Next the choice of how she would be intricately bound which included attire, if any, and type of bindings. Then he would sketch their image on a canvas as they would remain in that bound position until he saw fit that his sketch was perfect.

When they were released, he used the hundreds of snapped photos to finish the creation on canvas. Lastly he would sit before a traditional cloth ribbon typewriter and give more depth and meaning to the image.

He paused his pace, stood before Aurora, his last creation and took a long smooth drag from the cigar. To his semi full lips he brought the rim of a wine glass then took a slow sip while exhaling the fragrant cigar smoke through his nostrils.

His eyes studied the portrait. How he desired another beauty to again ignite his creative process. He had nowhere to begin until that muse was found or found him. There was no beginning until the inspiration came from nowhere.

He turned his back to that last creation, his dark eyes scanned the vast loft. The silence heightened his frustration for he hungered to hear the vocal responses to a lengthy stint in bondage. The thought provoked his naturally slanted mouth to perk a grin. Yes, he loved the sounds those past inspirations made and the longer they remained in bondage the sweeter their sounds.

His tilted his head back and finished the remaining wine in one swallow. His head lowered forward, eyes again scanned the vacancy of his apartment as he took another lengthy drag from the cigar.

He could have easily taken home one of his 'biggest fans' but he was never one for droll and plain and simple minded little girls.

He took a deep breath then slowly exhaled with the smoke billowing outward.

Yes, it seemed the younger female masses developed a taste for his fetish erotica tales. He chucked it up to educating the youths in ways of kinks. Yet, he knew likely not a one would experience such kinks for they allowed his words and images to take them there instead of acting them out in reality. They weren't like him, embraced his kinks and expressed them freely on canvas and typing paper. Nearly sixty years of experience shared with the literary world, well about forty of that was the right form of experience which were displayed in his books.

He left the wall of artful achievements, snuffed out the half smoked cigar then retired to the singular bedroom located atop the open loft. How he wished that room was set up with his camera equipment snapping those hundreds of photos of a new muse.

His eyes glanced at the empty canvas, hoped soon he would again create with paint the perfect image of his love for the erotic fetishes in the expressed form of a beautiful woman.

Enough being frustrated for the evening, he decided and turned out the table lamp.

She nearly stumbled into the bookstore being in a hurry to start her shift.

Rosangela, one of the few clerks at the bookstore, entered the bookstore which sent the door chime announcing her presence. She hurried towards the counter where her usual partner in store clerk crime stood preparing the register for the day.

Behind the counter she again stumbled, fussed with the loose ankle strap of her platform heel. She greeted, "Stew."

Stew greeted back with an amused chuckle, "Rosangela."

Rosangela finished fussing with her heel then made a quick scan of the store. Somewhat out of breath, she asked, "He here yet?"

Stew shook his head and stated, "Not yet." he shifted and set a stack of Victor Hardway hardbacks near the register, "He's not do in until two."

Rosangela sighed with relief then dropped her black cloth purse and jerked out her own well read copy of the author's latest novel. She tucked the book under the counter.

Stew saw Rosangela's actions then commented, "I can't believe you read that shit."

She huffed a sarcastic laugh then asked, "Have you tried to read it?" Her black lined blue eyes shifted and peered at him.

He laughed, thought her nuts for asking then stated, "Hell no!" he then commented, "Until he writes some gay porn, I ain't interested."

She laughed and shook her head. She turned and grabbed her name tag then proceeded to pin it to her black cardigan. She explained, "It's really an interesting read."

He nodded and doubtfully commented, "Yeah sure."

She continued to laugh then urged, "Shut up. You can't say shit cause you ain't read it!"

He grinned and stated, "Ain't gonna neither."

She again shook her head then began her day and was terribly nervous and excited to finally meet the author of her all time favorite erotica series.

She had read Victor Hardway's books from the very first one, admired his artful depictions of fetishes on the cover art and the written contents that told the story captured in the image. But, also, she found solace in his works for it catered to her misunderstood sexual lifestyle.

Rosangela was knocking on thirty and up until she discovered Victory Hardway's first book, she felt somewhat not at ease about her secret sexual side.

It was his works that helped her embrace what some would consider peculiar or unnatural. It was obvious to her that he too shared similar erotic tastes but wasn't entirely sure if his tastes were as hers for she delved beyond bondage. There was never anything mentioned that neared her fetish but nonetheless, she loved and admired the author's enlightened and realistic approach to describing word for word specific fetishes.

She accredited the author for helping her discover herself in every way imaginable.

She was previously married, eighteen and out of high school she married. Her marriage lacked any form of passion for the man she married was prim and proper. When she found those wondrous books, she found the strength to take hold of her life and leave a boring and loveless marriage.

She changed because of those novels. Her appearance changed throughout the passed few years from prim and proper into more expressive with piercings, tattoos, and clothing. And most positively was the inner depths of who she was that changed.

She accepted her differences which she labeled uniqueness. Her personality was freed and in moments of pure freedom with friends, she would loudly let it be known who she truly was and gave no care who bared witness.

Basically, she was more expressive throughout all aspects of her own being and the author, she believed he helped her blossom.

The day continued and around two in the afternoon the book store filled with Victor Hardway admirers. Then when the author arrived there became an immediate swarm of fans aimed at his signing table located near the back of the bookstore.

Rosangela had to wait until she had her fifteen minute break to have her chance to get her precious copy of Aurora signed which was around the time the author was supposed to depart from his final book signing.

She had only caught a glimpse of him for his adoring fans blocked any real look but took note of his signature fedora, that day it was white. Though she knew what he looked like by the image on the back inside cover, she wanted to truly see him in person.

So, she continued, hoped she wouldn't be too late to meet him and have him sign her bible, of sorts.

Victor Hardway sat at the signing table, wisp after wisp he signed copy after copy just as the day before.

Women of different ages, mostly younger by nearly thirty-five to forty years, approached him. Many were shy and giggled while blushing as he signed their names to a copy of his book. So many stated they were his biggest fan. Their names were useless to his need for inspiration which drove him to never pay attention to their appearances. Yes, he saw a few glimpses of pretty faces but nothing inspiration worthy.

The few hours passed, seemingly slowly, and soon the pack of female admirers waned and he signed one last book.

He rose from his chair, somewhat stretched out some stiffness.

The final signing of the book tour and back to continue his frustration from lack of inspiration.

He adjusted the white fedora and fetched his gray trench coat. He glanced at his agent and stated, "Bob, I'm leaving!"

He watched as Bob gave an approving nod as the short and stubby man gave a quick wave while speaking with the bookstore owner.

Rosangela heard the shout. She cursed, "Shit!" she fumbled and fetched her book from under the counter then shouted at Stew, "I'm taking my break early, he's about to leave, dammit!"

Stew simply shook his head and shooed Rosangela with his hand.

Rosangela smiled then darted out from behind the counter. Her nerves heightened as her heart pounded and breaths were quick and deep.

For three years she dreamed of meeting the author, now she hoped it wasn't too late.

She scuffled across the hardwood floor, dodged a few stragglers, then skidded to a stop for there he was.

She froze, starstruck beyond her expectations. Her large and black lined blue eyes were wide as they watched him lean down to fetch a leather business bag off the floor.

Could she muster the strength to continue?

Victor gave a final farewell wave to his distracted agent. He turned, prepared to step out of the last book store until another novel was produce. His dark eyes peered down the stretch of book shelves.

With a slight frown defining the lines between his brows, he saw a younger woman standing with one of his books clenched tightly in her hands.

Rosangela stared down the aisle. Was he looking at her?

Her eyes shifted from side to side, no one else was nearby. Her eyes looked forward and he was definitely looking at her. You must look a fool, she thought, then took a deep breath.

She stepped forward on her platforms. Her heart wouldn't cease it's racing, even through her attempt of steadying her breaths.

He watched the young woman finally move and approach. His eyes quickly took in details, earlier he refused to study the faces from the female mass that swarmed his table.

Obviously dyed black hair was sloppily pinned back with tight ringlets brushed against the sides of her porcelain toned face and about the length of her neck. Her eyes, he noted, were a piercing blue, highlighted by the deep black that lined them. Her lips, full with a silver loop labret piercing directly in the center of the bright red bottom lip.

She pushed herself further, forced a smile to hide her nervousness. She came nearer to the author, her fingers ached from clenching the book so tightly.

Yes, she agreed in thought, he was just as impressive in person as his photo depicted, perhaps more so.

His eyes were large and nearly black brown with distinct expressive lines about their shape. And between his perfectly shaped brows were those lines she positively adored from the pictures she'd seen, a new one with each book but always was worn his signature fedoras.

Then his mouth she discretely as possible made quick study. He had a semi full mouth, a natural crook about the left corner with a defining line etched from that corner to the side of his nose. A neatly trimmed and thin mustache traced the shape of his top lip as a slight trail led from the subtle center cleft of his bottom lip and down over the center of his chin.

Yes, she again agreed, he was Victor Hardway in the flesh and glorious he was. Nearly thirty years older than her, he looked amazing.

The woman stepped before him, perhaps thirty years of age. There she was, he stated in thought, confident he just witnessed the emergence into his life that long awaited inspiration and she was beautiful. She was different than all those previous inspirations. She was unique and that he praised.

She held her smile, cleared her throat then finally pushed herself to speak, "Hello," she took a breath, "Mr. Hardway, I hope I'm not too late."

His eyes focused on her face, read her nervousness clearly. He slowly shook his head then stated, "No, perfect timing." Yes, perfect timing for his frustration had nearly come to an explosive head but now was anxiously eased.

She smiled with relief then explained, "I work here and I had to wait for my break." she shakily offered her book and politely asked, "Would you mind signing this for me, please?" she added, "If you have the time.

He grinned and gave a nod, stated, "Of course."

He took the book into his hands then stepped back to the table. He felt relieved, she finally came to him but would her name truly make that inspiration realized.

He removed a pen from his bag then set the open book atop the table. Attempting to hide his anticipation, he asked, "Your name?"

She sang, "Rosangela."

Immediately that very special and unique name quickly and completely burst his inspirational needs into desired flames. He paused before signing, his mind raced through the definition of that name and quickly stopped at the meaning, angelic rose.

His slanted grin heightened then he eagerly wisp the tip of his pen inscribing the back of the cover with something other than the usual or simple.

To an inspirational angelic rose. A special thank you, for you are now my new inspiration, my muse. With much admiration, Victor.

He set his pen back into the bag. His head slowly shifted as his hands reached out the signed copy back to her. His eyes firstly watched her take hold of the book with petite hands, fingertips glossy black which he noted, the color of the deepest night.

From beneath the shadow of his fedora, his dark eyes took in her appearance in further detail.

His precious book was brought against the modest bust of his inspirational angelic rose, the cleavage prominent within the undone buttons of her black cardigan.

His slanted smirk remained intact as his eyes studied the lovely curve of her collarbone then shifted over the milky flesh of her neck where a dainty string of black pearls were snugly strung around the base with an equally petite onyx studded letter 'R' that dangled loosely.

He drifted his eyes up and over her chin, witnessed the beginning of those inspirational lips where that silver loop kissed the center of her full bottom lip which nearly sparkled against the bright red of her lipstick.

He followed the thin bridge of her nose then his eyes found hers. Her eyes were now even more brilliant blue for she was his chosen inspiration.

Rosangela sang with a smile, "Thank you, Mr. Hardway."

Victor sang back, "No thank you, Rosangela." he stared at his new inspiration he had craved and starved for and she was positively heavenly, "It is always a pleasure to meet a true angel who had taken the time to read my novel." He listened to her give a laugh at his flattery.

He was given a moment of awkward silence to study his inspiration a bit more. He took note as her modest breasts were obviously lifted by what was a black dress beneath the cardigan. The dress hung just to at the center of her shapely thighs and on her feet were black ankle strapped platform shoes, glossy black vinyl.

His eyes darted back up to her face as she still smiled and he watched her brush back a tight jet black curl from her cheek. Her appearance was unexpected, for those before her seemed now plain in comparison to her.

Rosangela spoke up, "Well," she felt awkward for she couldn't find the words to tell him how his books had changed her life, "Again, thank you for signing your book at the last minute for me. Thought I'd miss you."

She continued to smile as she turned around and prepared to leave, again said, "Thank you."

Victor spoke up, "Wait," he had no desire to have his inspiration leave as all his juices were overflowing and ready to overflow and create.