The_muse on Knotty Biscotti

Midnight Walks

Fri, 15 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Silence.

The words won’t come. The music has gone quiet.

The writer sighs her frustration as she turns another sheet of promise into a crumpled ball of failure. As it bounces across the floor, she hears soft footsteps approaching from the bedroom. She has been asleep for hours, she must have realised the writer hasn’t joined her yet. Come to check on her, to comfort her. The writer doesn’t respond, doesn’t move at all until she feels the steady one’s fingers on her shoulders. They begin with a gentle caress but soon escalate to firm presses and strokes, massaging the tension from the writer’s neck.

She pushes her pad across the desk, caps her pen, places it back in the coffee mug with the broken handle that has held every pen she’s used since her first story was published. Her hands know her, with each squeeze, each press, the writer’s frustration retreats. She turns her head to look up and back, into her wife’s concerned, beautiful face. Carefully, the writer lifts her wife’s hand from her shoulder and kisses the back. Rising from her desk, she pulls her muse hard against her.

The kiss is hungry, the muse—the steady one—seems surprised by the ferocity, then thrusts her tongue deep into the writer’s mouth. Their tongues fence, run over teeth, retreat and advance, and when the writer moans, She pulls away. The writer gasps, eyes searching. The reader takes her by the arm, smiles, and leads her out of the house.

Fresh air.

A moonless, blue-black sky replete with stars.

The silence broken only by the susurrus of wavelets meeting the lake’s cobble beach.

Calm.

They walk along the shore, comfortable without words, until they reach the ‘hot-tub’: a nearly-enclosed pool where the lake meets the beach. The pool is spring-fed, the surface always in quiet motion and the water forever warmer than the lake, a stone ‘shelf’ just below the surface at the shoreward edge worn smooth. The writer’s eyes go wide as the grounded one begins undressing. The writer bites her lip, and slips out of her oversized shirt, then removes her bra. Goosebumps rise at the cool night air’s touch, but her wife is already nude, smiling expectantly.

The writer opens her mouth, a proclamation already on her tongue, but She places a single finger across the writer’s lips. The muse is so close her nipples brush the underside of the writer’s breasts. The writer’s breathing halts as her finger trails down the writer’s throat, between her breasts, then circles her navel. As the finger continues down and slides beneath the waistband of her pants, the writer exhales, long and slow. She arches her back, pushes her hips forward, hopeful. Expectant. The muse’s expression shifts to something darker, lustful, as she hooks her fingers into the writer’s underwear and pulls both down to mid-thigh. She moves one hand back to the writer’s hip, caressing the heart-shaped quills tattoo while her other hand pets the writer’s coarse, dark pubic hair.

The constant one kneels, her breath hot against the writer’s thighs as she guides the yoga pants and panties to the writer’s ankles. The writer steadies herself with a hand on her wife’s head and steps out of her remaining clothes. Then she feels the muse’s thumbs at her lips, gently spreading, revealing her clit, swollen and yearning. She feels the patient one’s tongue against the nubbin and the writer tangles her fingers in the muse’s hair. The muse feasts. Her fingers bite into the writer’s ass, spreading her cheeks and pulling her tight while her tongue swirls around her wife’s clit and curls down, dipping into her pussy for a taste.

The writer bucks her hips, grinding into her face as the muse probes deeper, then pulls back and nips at the writer’s clit. She tightens her grip on the muse’s hair and the muse responds by suckling at that tender knot. The writer’s awareness shrinks to this hidden space, her wife on her knees, greedily eating her slit, driving her to—

The muse pulls away and the writer’s gasp is one of almost physical pain. She looks down, and the sight of her wife’s playful smile, glistening with the writer’s juices, nearly pushes her over the edge anyway. The muse rises slowly, then laces her fingers with the writer’s and pulls her toward the pool. They enter together, the warm spring a shocking comfort against her chilled skin. The muse backs her against the smooth, mossy stone wall, and they kiss again.

The writer clutches her wife’s ass under the water and grinds her mound against the muse’s, but just as quickly the muse pulls back again. The writer breaks the kiss, a question rushing to her lips, but the answer arrives first: the eager one slides her fingers along the writer’s slit, one on either side, the middle curling up inside her. Her thumb pressing firmly down on the writer’s clit. The writer squeezes her ass cheeks harder as her pussy clutches at the invading finger.

Release rushes at her again, and is withheld. The muse withdraws, but the writer understands. She climbs the shelf and, on all fours, her body is just above the water. The confident one’s hand grips the writer’s ass and pulls them apart. A tongue flattens against the writer’s cunt, lapping from her aching entrance to her puckered asshole in one long, possessive stroke. The writer’s legs tremble, her hands are unreliable on the slick stone. The tongue focuses, circling her clit with a maddening pressure, tracing the delicate hood before curling inside, fucking her with quick, shallow thrusts making the water churn around them. The writer’s hips are bucking shamelessly, grinding against the face buried in her, chasing the climax ratcheting inside her.

The muse adds a finger, sliding it deep into her cunt while her thumb grinds her clit. The dual sensation is devastating. A second finger joins the first, curling to press against that spot inside her that she knows. Then a slick, questing thumb presses against her asshole, just circling the puckered rim in concert with fingers and tongue and the other thumb on her clit. The writer’s orgasm obliterates awareness, a white bliss while her cunt clamps down on her wife’s fingers.

The muse guides her down, cradles the writer in her lap while they sit in the warm water under the starry sky.

In her head, the writer has a symphony.

Knotty

A Quiet Storm

Fri, 12 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The storm.

The light fades from blue to grey to black over the lake. All but the closest trees have been invisible all day as the blizzard turns the world into a light-grey blur. Now, as the wind continues to batter the isolated century home they share, the world shrinks to nothing but their quiet living space. To the quiet living room.

The pen scratches across the page. Stops. Hesitates. Drags a frustrated black line through what came before, rewriting history. Another attempt. Another pause, a tight exhale—the page is crushed in ink-stained fingers and tossed to the floor. The sheet joins its kin, scattered around the writer’s feet like autumn leaves. She glares at the blank, mocking page before her; at the ink staining her fingers—a galling reminder of every line that won’t breathe for her; of the truth the story refuses to reveal.

On the rug before the crackling fire, her lover reads in silence. A forest green blanket beneath, a red minky one draped over her shoulders—cast in a golden glow that makes the writer’s heart ache with love. She peeks over the pages from time to time, eyes full of the soft, steady warmth the writer has come to need more than air itself.

She tries again. The words will come; she just needs to try again. The words don’t come; the fury inside outstrips the storm outside. She crumples another ruined page, then looks again at her lover—the steady one, by the fire. Quiet. Supportive. Patient.

Calm.

In the storm.

The red blanket slips from her shoulders, lips parting in a wordless welcome. She rises, setting aside her useless papers and her inconstant pen. Ink-stained fingers clench unconsciously, her breath trembling as she crosses the room—answering her wife’s silent call. The distance is small, but each step quickens, driven by need and frustration. The eye of her storm turns, the red blanket falling away to reveal only warm, pale skin. The writer falls to her knees. Supplication.

She places her hands on either side of hips she delights in kissing—hips that have inspired her writing for years. Her lover, her wife, responds by hooking thumbs into the waistband of her tights, pushing them down as far as she can. A flurry of movement, and suddenly she’s sitting in her partner’s lap. Her thighs hug her inspiration’s waist, hungry mouth meeting waiting lips in a grounding kiss as unblemished fingers settle to guide the writer’s hips.

The writer makes a quiet, wordless sound of gratitude and need. Gratitude for her love, need for her body. They kiss again, slower, deeper, both moaning softly into the other as their tongues circle and curl and explore. As they part, both are a little surprised at the intensity, at the way she bites the lower lip of her partner. A quiet giggle follows, then smooth, clean fingers with perfectly manicured nails move down over the writer’s belly, through her wiry curls, and over her sex. Already warm. Already eager. The steady one giggles again at the sharp intake of breath and the almost animal way the writer responds, grinding and bearing down with surprising force.

The other hand moves to her hip. The writer’s fingers are always ink-stained, but her hip bears its own ink: two quills shaped into a heart. The muse loves to touch it; loves to kiss it; sometimes just looks at it in the early morning light while the writer sleeps. Now she presses a thumb hard against it and guides her love forward, back, forward again, back again, each cycle a little faster, grinding a little harder against those fingers now deep inside.

The writer’s gasps and sighs are so soft they are almost lost in the sounds of the fireplace and the storm outside. She swallows, parts her lips, and runs her tongue over bottom then top. Her soulful hazel eyes are locked on the reader’s green ones. She rides harder, faster. Her breasts bounce gently with each thrust. She steadies herself with both hands on her lover’s shoulders.

The reader’s hand leaves her hip, her fingers a feather-light touch over the writer’s waist, up her back, beneath her arms. She traces the shape of the writer’s glistening lips, smiling as she catches a glimpse of that wonderful tongue in the firelight. She lifts her chin and stretches her neck again, offering herself, and the writer claims her again. The kiss isn’t slow, nor gentle this time. The kiss is white-hot in its intensity, full of desperate urgency. The muse’s free hand moves down, over the writer’s clavicle and then claims the full, perfect swell of a breast. When she pinches the nipple firmly and gives it a slight twist, the response is immediate and satisfying!

The writer tenses, all of her, the pair of fingers inside her are squeezed and flooded with warmth. The writer’s shuddering, trembling gasps, sobs, giggles, they fill the quiet space with pure joy. The muse holds her—firm but gentle, knowing just how the writer likes to be embraced during these moments. The moments when there’s nothing but warmth and love and the afterglow of intense sex and the anticipation of more to come. When the last of her climax recedes—a wave pulling back from the beach, leaving everything fresh and new—the reader guides her onto the floor, in the middle of the green blanket. She pulls the red one over both of them and snuggles into a honeymoon hug.

Calm.

Knotty