X finished (standard:drama, 6143 words)
Author: Kenneth Brosky	Added: Dec 18 2006	Views/Reads: 3183/2653	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After years of success as an author, Terry has fallen into a slump. And only a very special muse can help him get out.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

to happen to his main character, or anyone else in the story for that 
matter. “I don't even know where this story is going,” he muttered to 
himself. 

Slowly, he moved the curser so that it highlighted the entire document.
Five days of work, marked in black, Terry's finger resting lightly on 
the backspace button. It was a difficult thing, throwing away five 
days. But if he copied the text before deleting it, he knew he would 
just paste it again later after lazily slapping something worse 
together, and even more hours would eventually be wasted. 

Terry minimized the window and opened an internet browser instead. It
was already noon: he always took an hour break at noon to gather 
himself. Usually, “gathering” meant grabbing a sandwich and sitting in 
front of the TV to watch two thirty-minute court shows. Terry watched 
as his random home page directed him to a site “dedicated to women and 
bikinis,” according to the title. Typical smut, thought Terry, 
directing himself to a less pornographic search engine. An exit pop-up 
appeared, offering him the chance to chat live with a sexy woman for 
just sixty-nine cents per minute. 

“And you're probably a three-hundred pound fat ass on the other line,”
Terry muttered. “Maybe even a guy.” He rubbed at his chin for a moment, 
pondering the wild thought. He could feel the blood rushing to the 
lower half of his body as his eyes remained glued on the model 
advertising the phone sex line. 

“What would happen if someone broke into her house in the middle of a
job?” Terry asked himself quietly. 

Quickly, he opened another document and began typing rapidly. “Maybe
this person broke into her home, and found her sitting at her computer. 
What could he do when he saw what was happening?” His fingers glided 
over the keyboard as he struggled to keep up with his thoughts. He 
stopped, letting one hand rest gently on his crotch. “There's a list of 
rules for the job taped to the side of the computer, and rule number 
one is that you don't disconnect while you're in the middle of a job. 
The intruder sees this when he gets closer and he realizes he's in deep 
shit. A disconnection would mean an immediate call from supervisors and 
that would mean that the intruder could get caught if no one picks up.” 


Terry cracked his fingers and lit a new cigarette. “Shit, this is good.”


He minimized the document and stared at the small pop-up ad again. This
time, he clicked on it and went to the homepage. He couldn't find much 
more information, other than a tour for visitors, which he decided to 
take. For research purposes, he told himself. Only Terry found himself 
not researching at all, instead staring at the nude pictures that 
dwarfed the small amounts of text. Every few minutes, an idea would hit 
him, and he would return to the document and type it. 

Terry glanced at the building across the window, watching the people
move from cubicle to cubicle. One of them seemed to stop and stare 
back. He looked down and found his hand still resting between his legs 
and quickly walked over to the close the shades. 

By six o'clock, he had two chapters of his next novel finished. Terry
picked up the phone and dialed his agent's home phone number excitedly. 
A not-as-excited-as-before voice answered the phone with a gruff 
“hello.” 

“Clint, you bastard!” Terry yelled. “How are ya?” 

“Since we last talked?” Clint asked. “I'm pretty tired, Terry.” 

“Well I've got some great news for you. I've got two very good chapters
finished for my next novel. I'm looking at forty-two pages right here 
on my monitor. This is great, Clint. I haven't felt this good about a 
book since my sequel to Damnation.” 

Clint was silent a moment. “That was a damned good book. That bastard
brought in a pretty penny. Are you shitting me with this, Terry? Don't 
shit me Terry, because I can't take this right now.” 

“Clint, I just need a little more time to finish this first draft.
That's all I want. Right now, I don't think it makes any sense, but 
it's getting there. It's developing, you know?” 

“This is great,” Clint said. His voice sounded more excited now. “This
is better than a short story. Send that over tonight and I'll give it a 
read.” 

“No,” Terry stated. “Just wait on it for me. Just bide a little more
time and I'll send the entire thing over to the publishing house and 
blow their minds.” 

“Allright, I'm gonna trust you on this one, Terry my boy. But only
because you sound excited, and I rarely if ever hear you sound excited 
about anything. Talk to you soon.” 

Terry hung up the phone and looked over the two chapters, feeling
calmness wash over his body. The anxiety of writer's block had 
disappeared, flushed out by a mild adrenaline rush. He looked at the 
closed shades, wondering who was still sitting behind their desks and 
who had already gone home for the evening. 

At least one person had looked at him—he remembered that clearly, the
older balding man with the thin waist and the tight suit coat had 
stared directly at Terry. He wondered if the man had seen Terry talking 
to himself, holding onto his manhood between each furious bombardment 
of typing. They would call him a weirdo, or some kind of 
psycho-across-the-street who liked to play with himself while surfing 
the internet. 

Terry pushed the thought aside. “It's a story,” he told himself. “And
it's a damned good one, at that. So who gives a shit what the 
nine-to-fivers think.” He re-opened the internet window. 

The phone rang again at 7:00. Terry was still browsing the porn site,
ideas pouring out of his brain so quickly that he could barely remember 
any single one. He immediately recognized his friend's voice through 
the static of the old cell phone on the other end. 

“Man, are you coming to the gallery party tonight or not?” Sam asked.
“It starts in thirty minutes. People are already showing up, I'm told.” 


Terry opened a new website and quickly browsed through it; a “Member's
only” site, not worth the $20 per month when there were perfectly good 
free sites available elsewhere. “I really don't think I'm up for it 
tonight,” he finally said. 

“Come fucking on. I already told everyone that you were coming. You got
a lot of fans in this part of the art world. Even the artist on display 
loves your shit, man.” 

“I really hate gallery nights, Sam. All the most stuck-up people in New
York will be there, and then I have to hear every two-bit critic and 
artsy wannabe tell me how I can make my novels better, and—more 
importantly—why I suck.” 

“Okay I hate them too, but I have to go because I need to write a review
for the paper. Just come with me so I don't have to suffer alone. I'll 
owe you one.” 

Terry tried clicking on one of the naked models' links, but the curser
refused to move. The computer had frozen up; too many browser windows, 
most likely. “All right I'll go. But I might have to leave if I start 
to get another rush of ideas. I've really been on a roll today.” 

“Deal.” 

It took a few moments for Terry's eyes to adjust in the loft; there were
all sorts of lights shining on various hideous paintings hanging on the 
walls. Terry looked closer and realized it wasn't paint at all, but 
wasted canvas with squirts of what could only be entrails and blood. 
They were all like that, each twisted contorting design just a little 
different, only enough for the artist to prove he hadn't simply copied 
one blueprint. For a moment, Terry wondered if perhaps the entrails had 
been stuffed inside a human at one point before being splattered all 
over the canvas. There was probably a good short story within that 
premise, but his mind refused to formulate a usable plot. 

Finally, he managed to spot Sam, who walked over in his usual “casual
cool” style that he claimed his own invention. It looked more to Terry 
like the young man was trying to hide a painful limp. 

“Thank God you got here,” he said, handing Terry an extra wine glass.
“Merlot. Really good. Which is more than I can say for this party. The 
critics love the guy, but I can't even look at the walls without 
getting sick to my stomach.” 

Terry nodded. “I know how you feel. It's funny—looking at this type of
twisted shit used to give me a plethora of ideas to write about. Now, I 
can't even think up a half-decent dialogue.” 

Sam slapped Terry on the back. “You've already put out a decade's-worth
of stories, man. Do you realize how many would-be authors out there are 
just trying to shit out one halfway decent novel from a small-press 
publishing house?” 

Terry shook his head. “I just wish I still had the same muse from when I
was younger. She would stare at these disgusting paintings and give me 
something I could really work with.” 

“Yeah, speaking of girls, there sure are a couple of cute ones here.”
Sam sipped at his wine. “Yum.” 

“Yum, in reference to the women or the wine?” 

Sam took another sip of the wine. “Both, man.” He pointed to a
sharp-dressed younger woman talking with a very ugly-looking man who 
Terry knew to be a literary critic. “That woman right there was talking 
about you. She's a fan of yours.” 

“Great,” Terry murmured. “And she just happens to be talking to my
arch-nemesis. He's probably telling her why he thinks my last book was 
a cry for help. Why I'm actually a gay alcoholic.” 

Sam laughed. “Tell you what: I'll distract him and you just move in and
talk to her. Her name's Jenny.” 

Terry winced. “I'm not sure. It's been awhile since I've just walked up
to a woman and started making conversation. I'm not good at it, and the 
fact that I'm pushing thirty-five doesn't help, either.” 

“Just say hi to her. Worst-case scenario: you give her an autograph and
move on. Just see where it leads.” 

Terry nodded and followed Sam over to the other side of the room. 

“Well if it isn't James Bingam!” Sam exclaimed in his most gracious
voice. “I haven't seen you at one of these shindigs since the Times 
fired your ass last year!” 

The older, rough-looking man adjusted his thin-frame glasses. “Well,
I've syndicated myself now, Mister . . .” 

Sam held out a hand. The man grabbed it, giving it two light pumps
before letting go and wiping the shaken hand on his blue-gray suit 
coat. 

“Just call me Sam,” Sam said. “I never really got to meet you when you
were working at the Times. I'm an art critic there now. Can we talk for 
a moment?” 

James cast an obviously longing glance towards the young lady before
finally nodding. “Make it quick.” Terry watched the two disappear into 
the crowd of fine-dressed bourgeoisie, towards a large selection of 
disgusting-looking statues sculpted out of what could only be feta 
cheese. 

“Hi,” Terry said. All of the calmness he had experienced earlier at the
party, replaced by anxiety and nervousness. “I'm Terry Branchardt. Sam 
was telling me you're a fan.” 

The woman nodded and held out a hand. Terry shook it, feeling the soft
skin rub against his calloused fingers, sending electricity down his 
spine. “I really loved your last book,” she said. Her voice sounded 
sweet, high, but not so much so that it made her childish. She had a 
great hourglass figure with long brown hair tucked behind her ears and 
beautiful brown eyes hidden behind a pair of thin-framed glasses. “I 
was talking with Mister Bingam about it earlier.” 

Terry rolled his eyes. “Great. I'm surprised you're still a fan after
talking to him.” 

She laughed. “Yeah, he didn't have many nice things to say about you.” 

“I probably pissed him off in a previous life or something.” 

Jenny laughed again. 

Terry was vaguely aware he was having sex with a woman, completely
unaware that it was the same woman he had been talking to at a party no 
more than three hours ago. Instead, his thoughts were focused on his 
new novel as it unfolded before his eyes in a beautiful manner, plot 
twists and clever references falling into appropriate places while the 
story slowly told itself to Terry. 

He focused on the painting above the bed frame, letting his muse
tenderly caress the gentle electrodes controlling his consciousness, 
tickling his left brain with ideas while his physical form continued it 
ceaseless sexual tirade on the faceless bent-over woman. 

It would be a dark irony in the end, Terry decided. The intruder would
kill the woman and assume her role on the computer until her shift was 
up. Maybe he would even enjoy talking dirty to the faceless johns who 
were getting off on it. 

“So the killer would have to talk dirty to the pervert until the woman's
shift was over,” Terry affirmed aloud. “He would have to, to make sure 
he wouldn't get caught.” 

Terry smiled. Jenny must have thought it was for her and she began
talking dirty. He never really noticed, and when he finally orgasmed, 
he did it only after working through the climax of the new novel. When 
he pulled out, he lay down on his bed and tried to envision more. 

He couldn't. Nothing came. With the climax firmly in place, Terry
couldn't discern where the novel would go next. He looked over to the 
woman lying on his bed. She looked back and smiled warmly. He stared at 
her naked body lying on top of the sheets. Something in the back of 
Terry's mind pressed against the wall of his cranium. He rested a 
gentle hand on her body and she warmly accepted. The something pushed 
its way closer to Terry's eyes. He could see something inside of his 
mind—an image, a scene, something related to the novel. 

He jumped on top of her and pushed inside. He could feel her struggle
slightly under his weight, but it all felt like a dream. The scene—that 
was what felt real now. The scene of the intruder sitting at the 
computer, typing away the dirtiest messages he could to the online 
users who didn't suspect a thing—it was all Terry could see as he 
continued feeding his hungry muse, his muse demanding he push further 
and further and fast and faster and not caring about anything else 
because she was giving him everything he needed and nothing else 
mattered anymore godammit because he needed the help more than he 
needed anything else. 

The woman began crying out weakly under the pressure. Terry felt his
concentration break. He looked down at the woman for a moment, debating 
whether to apologize or simply roll over and pray for her swift 
departure. 

He rolled over. 

Terry never heard her leave in the morning. Good, his muse seemed to
say; better to not see her sweet little face again. Terry shook his 
head of the thoughts in his head. They weren't thoughts about the book 
anymore. They were thoughts of the woman he had forced himself upon, 
her innocence and purity and blissful awe of his notoriety keeping her 
fear in check as he made love to her. No, he raped her, didn't he? 
Terry's heart debated the idea, his conscience squeezing and releasing 
the tender muscle with fervor. 

“It makes sense,” he told Sam later, over the phone. “I was married when
I wrote my first four novels. My fifth novel was considered the worst 
one I've ever written, which I wrote while I was going through a nasty 
divorce. I always had some readily available form of sex when I was 
married.” 

“I suppose,” Sam said. “So basically you're telling me that you bagged
that hot gal from the gallery show last night and all you thought about 
the whole time was how your next novel was going to unfold?” 

“Something like that. The problem is that I can only really remember the
overall plot today. Everything else went through my mind too quickly. 
I'm telling you, Sam; while I was on top of her, I was writing one of 
the greatest novels I've ever written. I had every single detail 
described, every single plot twist already laid out.” 

“Whatever works for you,” Sam said. “I usually think about baseball when
I'm having sex. But hey, to every man his own.” 

“Exactly, Sam.” The phone made two quick beeps. “Sam, I gotta go.
There's another call and I'm betting it's Clint.” 

“Okay just give me a call later in the week.” 

The phone double-beeped again. 

“Hey yeah, how did your review go?” Terry asked quickly. 

“You can read it in the Times tomorrow. I completely blasted the poor
bastard out of the water.” 

“Okay talk to ya soon, Sam.” Terry pushed the flash button on the phone.
“Hello?” 

“Terry, my main man!” Clint said. “Sorry it's taken so long for me to
get back to ya. I've been in and out of meeting rooms for the past six 
hours.” 

“What did they say, Clint?” 

“They're interested, Terry. I've got their chops wet, but they're not
lightening up on the week deadline. They want something soon, and 
they're just not budging.” 

“Don't worry about that,” Terry said. “I think I can spit out this
entire book before their deadline. I'm on a roll over here and I think 
I know why. I'll get back to you tomorrow, hopefully with more good 
news.” 

“That quick?” Clint asked, somewhat suspiciously. “You haven't been
holding out on me, have ya? Stashed away a novel or two for when you're 
in a block?” 

“No, Clint, I just got this idea a couple of days ago. It's flowing out
of me like wine.” 

“Because if you had a few novels hidden away, that wouldn't be a bad
thing you know,” Clint continued. “I know some writers do that. We 
could cash in and take a nice vacation.” 

“I'll talk to you tomorrow, Clint.” 

“Okay that's fine. The sooner the better. Adios.” 

Terry turned off the phone and sat in his easy chair. The TV in front of
him was off. He cursed himself for never stashing away a few porn 
flicks during his marriage. His computer sat directly behind him, but 
the idea seemed so low now, especially since last night. Last night, 
Terry had thought up ideas that he never would have thought up under 
normal circumstances. The imagery and details flowing from his brain 
during the sex was on a completely different level than what he was 
used to. 

Nothing would come. Terry knew it, even before he turned on the
computer. The flat plain of his mind's eye was a wasteland of nothing, 
dry ideas springing up in various places more resembling weeds than any 
sort of fathomable flower of originality. His dry muse lusted for a 
drop of sexual pleasure, addicted to the sweet taste of carnal 
gratification. 

Terry turned on his cordless and dialed 411. A pleasant voice answered
and asked a slew of standard questions, one after the other. 

“New York,” he answered. “Any escort agency is fine.” 

The women stared in silence as Terry attached the wireless headset to
his computer. They stood in the den, naked, and he could tell that they 
felt more than a little awkward standing around in the large room. One 
of them—a blonde with an hourglass figure and deep makeup lining her 
eyes—sat on the large blow-up mattress Terry had set up. She took turns 
twirling her long strands of hair between each of her slender fingers. 

The other woman—a brunette with more weight on her bones—seemed much
more curious, her deep brown eyes recording his every movement as he 
connected cords and disconnected others. Terry found her prettier than 
the blonde; he had always liked women who weren't too thin. They always 
seemed happier with themselves. This one sported a fresh rose tattoo on 
her left thigh, partly hidden between two folds in her skin. The folds 
weren't signs of overweight; she was sitting, leaning on her side so 
that her stomach wrinkled slightly over her waist. 

“I honestly didn't think this would work,” he said, standing in front of
the computer, waiting for it to boot up. He was mostly naked except for 
boxer shorts, keeping one hand over his small gut that had surfaced 
over the last few years. “I didn't really think you'd go this far or 
anything, you know?” 

“As long as you have the money,” the blonde said in a high voice. It
sounded spoiled and whiny as it reached Terry's ears. 

He nodded. “As long as you stick to the plan. I know this is going to
seem a little weird at first.” 

“This isn't much,” the brunette said. Her voice sounded sweeter, more
professional. “We've had weirder requests than this, you know?” 

“I'm just trying to warn you now so nothing unexpected happens. Ah, how
long do you think you can go at it?” 

They looked at him with blank expressions, the blonde's clueless face
especially disheartening. “Like, with you?” she finally asked. 

“Well, I won't be participating, I don't think. It all depends.” 

More blank expressions. Terry continued; “I'm writing a story, so for
most of the night, I'm going to be talking into this headset. That 
reminds me: the less noise you can make, the better. This thing has a 
tendency to pick up background noises and can freeze up the computer. 
We don't want that.” 

The brunette nodded. 

“Okay. So get to it.” 

Terry watched the two naked women begin awkwardly kissing, slowly
developing a passion and rhythm until all of their movements seemed to 
flow together like a perfect opera solo. Terry watched them, feeling 
his libido rise, his creative juices beginning to bubble as his muse 
stirred with a candy stick of locution. 

The women moved to the floor, one laying over the other. Terry felt the
ideas begin to boil over and he quickly began speaking, drawing out as 
much of the plot as he could before any of it would dissipate forever. 

“Broken, bleeding,” he whispered, “the heroine is shoved into her own
closet and left for dead. But she's still alive, you see. She's still 
alive and she has her cell phone in her purse, hanging in the closet. 
She turns it on and dials into her instant messaging name and IM's the 
man she had been having internet sex with. She ... she ...” 

Terry could feel his creativity drying up. He pointed to the brunette on
top. “You need to do more. You need to really do more. Do it now.” He 
waited her to return to her position, waited even longer for the two 
women to work faster, their mouths and tongues moving with ferocity. 
Terry saw the rest of the scene unfold before his eyes. “She IM's him 
for help, wants him to stall the intruder online and call the police. 
Stall the man long enough for the police to come and enter the house.” 

Everything faded again. Terry watched the scene fade away as the tunnel
vision of reality dispersed his fantasy. “Shit,” he whispered, crawling 
out of his chair and moving over to the women. 

The brunette turned her head over her shoulders. “It costs extra to join
in, you know.” 

“Goddammit,” Terry hissed. “Don't talk. Don't fucking talk or I swear to
God I won't pay you a damned thing. I told you not to talk.” He forced 
himself into the brunette and felt the scene rush into his mind's eye 
again, his muse thoroughly pleased. 

“Ah,” the brunette gasped. “This is uncomfortable.” 

Terry ignored her. “The man decides to play hero. He wants to play hero,
because he's never played hero. He continues talking to the intruder, 
ordering another thirty minutes and setting up an automated messaging 
program.” 

“Seriously,” the brunette said, using one hand to try and push at Terry
from behind. “You need to move a little or something. This hurts.” 

“He goes to the house himself,” Terry muttered dryly, eying the
brunette. “He can see the intruder and he knows he can take the 
intruder out if he just plans it all out with some caution.” 

He felt the blonde pushing at him, the brunette frantically pawing at
his hands, which were wrapped firmly around her soft waist. He ignored 
them. He couldn't see them at all. He could only picture the woman's 
house, the intruder sitting at her computer and talking dirty with her 
customers, liking every second of it. 

“It's almost finished, and it's been a few days,” Clint said, amazed.
His voice sounded much more annoying in person than Terry remembered, 
his nostrils working against him to produce a nasally voice, resulting 
in misplaced L's and N's. Maybe he was a cocaine addict, Terry mused. 

“I'm on a roll,” Terry said. “You just keep those publishers at bay. I'm
going to bang out one hell of an ending, maybe tonight. But it has to 
be perfect. Something really amazing that will have readers thinking 
for days what it really was all about, you know?” 

Clint nodded and sipped at his mocha. “I read you. I read you loud and
clear. I got a feeling about this book, Terry. You gotta get it to me. 
You gotta give me a copy, because I need it bad, man!” He jokingly 
grabbed at Terry's arms. 

Terry laughed. “I'll see what I can do. I've got a pretty good idea of
how to finish this novel.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “An idea on the back-burner? I thought this
entire novel was pretty much fly-by-night.” 

“It is. But I know exactly how to get this last idea out.” 

Terry highlighted the line of text before him, trying not to imagine
what had happened the night before. He pushed the “delete” button and 
continued reading through the story. “Please” and “no” kept popping up 
between whole sentences. 

“He didn't need anyone to tell him hurting what to do,” Terry read
aloud. He highlighted “hurting” and deleted it. “Jesus Christ,” he 
muttered. The next sentence had more of the same; “stop,” “you're 
hurting her,” “don't,” “rape.” He highlighted each word and quickly 
pushed the delete button, trying not to imagine what he had been doing 
to the two escorts when they had said the words and phrases, words and 
phrases spoken loud enough to register on the talk-and-type headset. 

“Just finish the novel,” he whispered to himself. “Just finish the novel
and don't think about it.” 

Only he couldn't stop thinking about it. He couldn't stop picturing his
sexually-depraved muse, laughing and touching herself, dangling the 
ending of his book just out of his reach. It craved more and more every 
time. He had to push his libido to finish the novel. He couldn't stop 
thinking about it. 

There was a knock at the door. Terry walked over and opened the door,
quickly pulling in the blonde woman wearing the heavy leather jacket. 

“Jeez, don't pull,” she muttered. “I'm supposed to be the one dominating
you, not the other way around.” 

“That doesn't matter,” Terry stated, undressing himself. “We need to
hurry up and do this, okay? We need to get this over with.” 

The woman nodded and took off her jacket. She waited for Terry to lie on
the ground before crawling on top of him. He put on his headset. 

“What's that for?” she asked. 

“Just never mind,” Terry snapped. “Please.” 

She nodded again and began quickly kissing around his mouth, using her
fingers to twist his nipples and pinch his skin. He could feel 
something forming in his mind, some kind of ending but too distorted to 
make out. It wasn't coming to him—not strong enough to decipher, at 
least. 

Terry crawled on top of her and began quickly moving up and down inside
her. “The hero,” he gasped out. “The hero can see an open door, 
something, something out of the view of the intruder.” 

Nothing more came. 

“Dammit!” Terry pulled away from the woman and pulled off his headset,
running into the kitchen and coming back with a long kitchen knife. The 
woman looked at him with unease. 

“We need to go further,” Terry said. “We need to take it much further.
Can we go further? Do you know what I'm talking about?” 

The woman bit her lip and nodded. 

Terry cut one wrist and watched the woman's face writhe in agony at the
sight. “Are you sure you're into this?” he asked. “You don't exactly 
have the face of a seasoned veteran in this type of thing.” 

The woman shook her head. “Usually it's the people inflicting the pain
on me. They usually don't have the stomach to cut themselves up. You're 
going to need stitches for that.” 

Terry nodded, setting the kitchen knife on the end table. “You just do
what you need to do to make this work and don't worry about anything I 
say. Try not to say too much yourself, too. Are you sure you know how 
to do this?” 

The woman nodded. Her loop earrings dangled when she did. “I've done
this plenty of times. Trust me: this will feel amazing.” 

“That's what I'm counting on,” Terry said. He pulled out the two tabs of
ecstasy from his desk drawer and washed them down with a large glass of 
water. He checked his computer and tested the headset again: “One. 
Two.” The words transcribed onto the screen perfectly. “Okay, let's 
finish this.” 

The woman kneeled behind Terry, stroking him violently but sensually
enough for the ideas to begin pouring into his brain faster than he had 
ever imagined. 

“According to the woman in the closet,” Terry started, his voice
bouncing up and down with each stroke, “the eight-hour shift only had 
an hour left. After that, the intruder could disconnect the computer 
and no one would be the wiser. He would take what he could and leave, 
and probably make sure the woman was dead before doing so.” 

Terry breathed heavily and felt the strap around his neck tighten. He
pictured the woman from the party, her soft cries of pain. He pictured 
the two women, tried to picture what they had looked like during his 
climax. He couldn't. 

“Her wounds were bandaged with nylon and a fancy shirt, purchased for
fifty dollars on close-out only a week before. The main character 
needed to get into the house, and he needed to find a way to overcome 
the intruder. From what the woman could remember, he was big and built, 
two things the main character was not.” 

The strap around Terry's neck grew tighter so tight that he had to
struggle to breathe, and the stroking below his waist grew quicker and 
stronger. The ecstasy began to reach his brain. He could picture his 
muse, overcome with pleasure, dropping the ending in a climax of 
satisfaction, well within Terry's reach. He smiled. The strap was now 
too tight to gurgle out more than a few syllables at a time. He leaned 
over to his desk and grabbed the keyboard, typing as quickly as he 
could, feeling his lungs scream for release and his muse scream for 
more. 

The idea grew clear. “The woman, checking her clock on the cell phone,
seeing she had no time left, would try to run. The intruder, seeing the 
time shift had ended, would shut off the computer and make his way back 
to the closet to make sure his prey was indeed long dead. The main 
character would slip in through an unlocked window and the three would 
all meet in the middle of the hall.” 

The strap tightened and Terry finally became aware that he hadn't
breathed in over a minute. Too late, he felt himself orgasm even as 
everything went black. 

Clint lit a cigarette, keeping his eyes off of the corpse strewn across
the cheap blow-up mattress in the middle of the room. He finished the 
last sentence and turned off the computer without saving the document. 

“Jesus Christ, what a piece of shit.” 

The police officer looked up from the crime scene, a look of extreme
boredom mapped across his face. “Excuse me?” 

“What the hell was he doing here, exactly?” Clint asked. 

The cop shrugged. “Something about having an orgasm while strangling
yourself. Orgasm by asphyxiation. Supposed to be a higher level of 
pleasure or something like that. I wouldn't try it, myself.” 

“No, I suppose you wouldn't.” Clint took a deep drag of his cigarette
and stared at the powerless computer. 

“You all done here yet? I'd like to get home sometime today.” 

Clint nodded and put his cigarette out on the monitor. He stopped in the
doorway to look at the scene one last time, shaking his head. “What a 
waste.” 


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