When Muses Attack!

~~~~

“Wicked One, I am home!” I say, shoving the booty-laden suitcase in the door.

Silence. I stagger around the kitchen. I’ve still got my “sea legs” and everything seems to be moving slightly but it’s only me. I sigh. He may be gone but I don’t think so. I think he’s just pouting.

I totter in to turn on the computer and check my email. I feel him but he won’t appear.

“Do you want to see what your admirers have said about you?” I murmur. No answer. I read the reviews out loud for him anyway. I laugh with delight and shake my head when I’m done. Indeed, he needs to be served right on so many different levels.

He materializes as I am digging in the refrigerator for some soda. I smile. Suddenly, he is smelling me like an old Pekingese dog we used to have. Whenever you’d come in from outside, the dog would follow you all over the house until you let him smell you. His Haughtiness is doing the same thing – chasing me around the kitchen trying to smell me.

He finally grabs a fistful of my hair and smells it, temporarily halting my teetering. It’s very weird but I stand there and let him smell. Probably wondering if I’ve been with another male. That would be just like him. I roll my eyes in disgust.

“Take off your clothes,” he demands huskily, still holding a handful of hair.

I’m indignant. “I’ll freeze to death!” I point out.

“Just do it!” He hisses desperately, a wild look in his eyes.

I sigh. “Nice to see you, too,” I mutter darkly and stomp off in search of the space heater. Mr. Wicked is hot on my heels.

After I locate the thing, I take it into the bedroom and shut the door, letting the room heat up to a tolerable temperature. Once it seems warm enough, I begin stripping off the layers of clothes. I get down to a T-shirt and pantyhose when he gasps and fixates on my neck.

Slowly, my hands move to my throat and I feel the shell choker I bought from a vendor on the beach. It’s just a cheap shell necklace they sell to all the tourists.

“Cowrie shells,” I say softly.

“Pearls?” He whispers hoarsely, his glittering eyes never leaving my throat.

I nod, suddenly remembering their fascination with the sea. The look on his face is unnerving and I hesitate at the door. What will he do if I show him my treasure?

“You’re not going to get all weird on me, are you?” I ask.

“No,” he says softly. “I promise. Let me see the pearls.”

Dutifully, I drag my suitcase into the bedroom and rummage thru it until I find the obligatory bag of gifts. I dump it out on the bed then dig deeper into the case to pull out a large velvet pouch. I hold it in my hands and smile. He looks at it curiously.

“Black pearls, supposedly,” I say softly and open the bag, letting the strand of pearls set in sterling silver slide out into my palm.

He draws in a sharp breath at the sight and reaches out for them but seems almost afraid to touch them. Gently, I turn his hand over and place them in his palm. I could swear I hear him moan. He stares at them breathlessly, his eyes full of wonder. Funny, I never thought to show him any of the other strands I have until now.

I open my jewelry box and begin to pull out pearl earrings, necklaces and bracelets and toss them on the bed for his enjoyment. His eyes grow even wider. He is nearly insufferably beautiful with that look on his face. I am thankful he doesn’t look at me like that. I certainly would not be able to resist him.

Grabbing the gift bag, I dump the contents on the bed. Out tumbles T-shirts, postcards, key chains and other cheap shell jewelry as well as some shells I’ve collected from the beach myself. He looks at the loot then at me.

“From the sea?” He asks softly, one hand still clutching to the black pearl necklace as the other one hovers timidly over the shell collection.

“Yes, the shells are,” I say. “But the pearls I don’t know. Mostly freshwater cultured I believe.” Not that it makes much of a difference to him, I think.

“Put them on,” he commands roughly, shoving the jewelry at me.

“Why?” I wonder. “They don’t match.”

“Just do it!” He hisses. “Please.”

My eyebrows meet my hairline at “please”. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“You’re not going to get all weird on me, are you?” I ask again.

He ignores me and begins reverently touching the shells, letting his graceful fingers caress each one like a lover. I shiver a little and turn my mind to the task of putting all of my shell and pearl jewelry on. When I am finished, I touch his hand and he releases the necklace so I can add that one. I watch him in fascination as he begins to smell the T-shirts and my beach towel. I absently pick one up and sniff it then smile. It smells like the sea and the sun. I understand now what he’s doing.

Once I am properly adorned to his liking wearing every bit of shell and pearl jewelry I possess, he summarily rips the covers off the bed and throws the pillows in the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand. He’s gone off the deep end.

“Take off your clothes and lie down,” he says tightly and points to the bed.

I draw in a breath to protest but he cuts me off. “Just do it! And, no, I’m not!” He growls.

I grunt. “It’s too late!” I think to myself but do as he asks anyway.

I’m lying on the bed wearing nothing but my panties staring up at the ceiling when I hear him moving around. “What in the hell is he doing and what has gotten into him?” I wonder.

Then he is suddenly straddling my waist, raising my shoulders up off of the bed to pull my hair free. I watch him as he leans over me, his hard torso flexing as he moves. He’s taken off his tunic leaving me a very enticing view of his body.

“What are you doing?” I ask curiously.

“Fixing your hair,” he murmurs in reply.

I turn my head slightly as see that he’s fanned my hair out and placed the loose shells in it. “Ah, well,” I think to myself. “It needed washing anyway.”

Once he’s finished his little ritual, he begins smelling me again all over – my skin, my hair, periodically tasting my skin with his lips and tongue. It tickles and I shiver, giggling softly as he continues his strange ceremony or whatever in the hell he’s doing.

He has a very strange look on his face and it suddenly dawns on me what is wrong with him.

“You’re homesick,” I say gently.

He looks away but not before I see the affirmation in his eyes. My initial response is to hug him close and soothe him but one would just as soon cuddle a porcupine. Instead, I place one hand on his shoulder and squeeze it reassuringly. Been there, done that. He lets my hand rest there for a minute before gently removing it and placing it back beside my head.

As quickly as he appeared over me, he is gone now, lighting candles and speaking to himself in his language before flipping off the lights. I lay there patiently, feeling a tug of empathy for him. I know what it’s like to be homesick and it has to be worse for him. No wonder he is smelling me and acting so weird. The thought never occurred to me that I would still smell of salt water, sand and sun but I do and it reminds him of his true home, across the sea – so long ago and far away.

~~~~