Friday's Revenge by Girl Friday

Originally published December 2003

*****

A little background for the reader. I, Girl Friday, have been adopted by Arty

( /~arty/ ) as his muse. He thinks it's fun to write silly tales that feature me as a character in his stories. He calls these little fairy tales The Friday Chronicles (/~arty/friday/index.html ). Now one bright December day, he wrote a little story about me he titled "Relief". The basic gist of it was, he strapped me into a machine that forced me to orgasm 1,000 times. I think he went a little overboard and this was my response. Any dialog in [square brackets] are conversations that take place between myself and Arty as people, not characters, as the story is being written. I hope you enjoy my revenge.

*****

Friday's Revenge

*****

001

"Oh OH OH YESSSSSSS!!!"

000

Friday heaved a sigh of relief as the counter clicked over to zero and her body was released from the orgasm machine. Exhausted and filthy beyond measure, she stumbled home and crawled into the shower. She cleaned up as best she could before falling into bed and sleeping away the better part of two days.

She awoke ravenous and more than a little sore. Friday made her way to the kitchen where she brewed a pot of coffee and sat gingerly in a chair. [Look, if you had just been forced to orgasm 1000 times, you'd be sitting pretty damn gingerly too!] As she tried, unsuccessfully, to find a comfortable position, she thought 'something has got to be done about Arty'. With an evil grin, she began to make a list ...

*****

BANG - BANG - BANG

The loud pounding on his cellar door caused Arty to jump straight out of his chair. He'd been working hard on his next installment of "The Friday Chronicles," lost in dreams of what new torments he could subject his Fairytaleland muse to next. Making sure his work was saved, Arty went to open the door. To his surprise and trepidation, there stood Friday, his aforementioned muse, looking quite a bit different from her usual self.

Oh, the wings were there, and the slightly bent halo too, but then it got weird. Instead of chocolate, Friday was wearing a black leather bustier, laced with red ribbons up the front, an impossibly short black leather shirt, and last but not least, knee-high black leather boots. She carried a small, black briefcase and a riding crop.

"Friday! What are you doing here?"

"You are working on a new installment of 'The Friday Chronicles', correct?"

"Err, yes."

"Last I checked, I was still your muse ... unless there's some memo I didn't get."

"Uh, no, you're still my muse."

"Well then, I'm here to help. Are you going to let me in or make me stand out here all night?"

At the sight of his muse tapping her riding crop impatiently, Arty thought perhaps he ought to do as she suggested and let her in.

[Uh, do I really have to?]

[Look buster, I'm writing this, not you, so shut up and stand aside.]

Friday strode into the room and looked at the story in progress on Arty's computer.

"1001 Friday Knights? You can not be serious!"

[You've been going it alone again, haven't you? How many times have I told you to run your ideas by me first?]

Arty cleared his throat nervously as Friday looked over the story. The further she read, the harder her expression became. When she came to end of the story, Friday snorted in disgust and pinned Arty with a steely glare.

"Once again, you've written me into all sorts of embarrassing situations and then don't have the decency to allow me a nice, satisfying romp with a handsome fellow."

"I gave you 'Relief'," he protested.

"A machine? 1000 orgasms? Simulating a blow job to get food and water? That is not what I call a satisfying experience. More like degrading and abusive. Where's the love? Where's the tenderness? God damn it, is it too much to ask for a little human contact and some decent sex?"

As Friday continued to rant and rave, she advanced on Arty, her eyes flashing dangerously. Arty backed away from Friday until he found himself up against the wall. Friday opened her briefcase and pulled out two silk scarves. She advanced on Arty once more as he cowered against the wall.

"Spread 'em."

Her tone was commanding and brooked no argument. Arty complied instantly. Friday looped the silk about his wrists and tied them to the iron rings embedded in the cellar wall.

[I object! There are no iron rings embedded in my cellar walls!]

[Wanna bet? Are you forgetting who signs all your purchase orders for this crap?]

Friday pulled a large knife from the briefcase and showed it to the bound author.

[HOLD IT! What are you *doing*?]

[If you don't stop interrupting, I'm going to take steps ...]

"Uh, uh, uh. Friday? Beloved muse? What are you doing with that knife?"

[I warned you.]

Friday threw the knife down in disgust and pulled a large ball gag from her bag. She stuffed it into Arty's mouth and fastened it tightly behind his head. Now that he was unable to protest, Friday retrieved her knife and quickly cut the clothes from his body.

[Let's see how you enjoy being naked and on display.]

[Mmmpfhh]

Friday perused his naked form and smiled rather lasciviously while inspecting certain portions of his anatomy. Arty's penis twitched and throbbed under Friday's gaze. She giggled at him and fastened a third silk scarf around his eyes. Arty struggled briefly before submitting to the blindfold. Friday made sure he couldn't see anything then picked up her riding crop.

"Now Arty, you have been a very bad boy."

THWACK! Arty started at the sound of the crop hitting the wall, just barely grazing his hip.

"You've stripped me." THWACK!

"You've abused me." THWACK!

"And you've viciously withheld any enjoyment for me." THWACK!

Poor Arty was a bundle of limp, nervous tension as the riding crop continued to smack the wall around him. Friday exchanged the crop for a long, elegant feather. Stepping close to Arty so that her breasts, contained only by the leather bustier, brushed against his chest, Friday whispered in his ear, "I think it's time we revised our Author-Muse contract so that these types of misunderstandings don't occur in the future."

Arty whimpered behind the gag and tried to press himself against his seductive muse. Stepping back and laughing softly, Friday began to tease Arty with the feather. Running it over his neck and then drifting down to circle his nipples, Friday teased him mercilessly. Then the feather moved lower, tickling his ribs and his abdomen. Arty's cock twitched and started to grow.

"Do you enjoy this, Arty? Does it turn you on?"

Arty whimpered again and nodded his head as Friday played the feather over the insides of his thighs.

"If I make you feel good, will you promise to behave?"

Arty nodded his head violently, banging it into the wall behind him. The feather teased his cock, sliding over his erect shaft, circling his glans before drifting down to tickle his balls. Arty groaned and humped himself against the feather.

"Oh Arty ... I've got one more surprise for you, but I guarantee you're going to want to see this."

Friday reached up and removed his blindfold. Arty's eyes were filled with need and lust. He watched avidly as Friday reached into her briefcase and pulled out a small bottle of honey. Slowly, Friday dribbled the honey over the upper slope of her breasts, making sure to get some in the valley between. His eyes widened as she scooped up a small amount of honey on one finger and brought it to her mouth. Sliding her finger into her mouth, Friday licked it clean as Arty groaned in longing.

"Do you like honey, Arty? Would you like a taste?"

More groans and much nodding ensued.

[Can't you do anything but groan?]

[Mmmpfph]

"Of course with that gag in, you can't taste can you?"

Arty shook his head.

"Too bad too because it tastes sooo sweet." Friday brought another honey covered finger to her mouth and sucked it clean.

"Mmm. Tell you what, Arty ... how about we put the honey on you?"

Arty's eyes bugged out of his head as Friday dripped honey all over his erect cock.

"Now how on Earth will we get that honey off?"

Friday trailed one finger through the honey on his shaft, drawing small spirals and lines as she teased Arty.

"Do you think it should be licked off? Would you like that, Arty?"

The poor man nearly collapsed at her words. Had he not been tied to the wall, he would in fact be a largish puddle of English goo on the floor.

"Just sign this new Author-Muse contract and I'll make sure that honey gets all licked off."

Friday held up a clipboard and slipped a pen into Arty's bound hand. Hastily he scribbled his signature, eager for the licking to begin. She checked the contract to make sure that his signature had gone through all three copies.

[One for me, one for you, one to be filed at the Central Office; can't have you saying later that you never saw any contract.]

Friday smiled in satisfaction and pulled the middle copy out. Laying it on the desk, she began to gather her things. Using a warm, wet towel to clean the sticky honey from her chest, Friday dropped it in the washing machine before picking up her briefcase and turning to leave.

[Hey, I'm nothing if not tidy. What? The licking? Oh yes, I almost forgot ...]

Arty struggled against his bonds, whimpering and moaning in a pathetic manner. Friday glanced at him without sympathy.

"This was supposed to be a punishment and I think you've enjoyed it entirely too much. Now I do believe I promised that honey would be licked off, but I just don't have the time now. I have a very full schedule and I'm already late for a spanking session with another author, so I've arranged for a replacement to finish up here with you."

Friday took a small counter from her bag, set it to count down from 1000, and placed it on the desk.

"Since you were so generous earlier, I thought I would return the favor. You owe me 1000 orgasms, Arty. When that counter hits zero, you will be released."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Ah, there's my replacement now. Enjoy your relief, Arty. I know I did. Now, let the licking begin ... "

Friday opened the door to a huge, grinning, purple dinosaur. Arty's muffled screams followed her all the way to her car.

-- Fin --

Mess with the Muse at your own risk.