Microfiction Monday: Angela

This morning, I promised myself that for every day this year, my erotica portfolio would be somehow bigger or better than it was the day before. There were no other conditions to my resolution than that, whether I edit something short, write something new or add to a work in progress, I simply have to do something, anything at all, each day. Not so tough right? Somehow, right now, it seems to be.

I am a rational, free-thinking human being, so of course I don't believe that I have a little angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other constantly bickering over who gets to give me advice on all the choices I have to make in a day.  Come on, I'm not Bugs Bunny!  What I do believe in, however, is her.  If the Jungians got hold of me, they would probably say that she is the personification of those portions of my psyche that are clamouring to be heard at any given point.  If I were schizophrenic, she would be what the doctors called the voices in my head.  Since I'm neither of these things, I gave her a different name:  Angela.

This is a deceptively innocent sounding name, and I chose it on purpose, because Angela herself is often quite deceptive.  She is cunning, tempting, and often very, very wicked.  She's a chimera of all my desires, weaknesses, drives, motivations (or lack thereof) and rationales.  She's a shape-shifter, picking up whatever avatar best suits her purpose of the moment, and hoping that she can trick me, if even for a moment, into believing that she's someone else:  someone more... credible.  She's my own personal devil's advocate, bringing each and every one of my decisions into question.  And today, oh my goddesses.  Today she was in fine form.

Today she was all alabaster skin in flimsy amounts of flowing crimson silk with matching fuck-me lipstick.  She chose to wear ass-length ebony curls, and her plentiful figure was deliciously smooth and rounded, with curves all in the right places.  Right down to her calf-hugging impeccably polished black leather boots, her entire being today was meant to bewitch, delight, tempt and seduce me.  
Many times I've sat down at my desk today, with the intention of doing something, anything at all creative. Each time, she's crept up behind me, her breath hot on my ear, leaving the tiniest smudge of her ruby red lipstick as she whispered to me huskily "You know, you haven't checked you email recently."  Her nails have scratched down my arms as she's moved to lay her hands atop mine, and guide them to see who's been updating their Fetlife accounts instead of to the word processor.  She's moaned in orgasmic delight as her tongue traced the contours of my ear, seducing me into having just one more game of Sudoku.   When she thought she might just lose me, she bit down hard on the lobe of my ear, making my masochistic side crazy enough with lust to check out which of my regularly visited pornographer blogs had been updated in the last two hours instead of my initial intent to re-tool the hated chapter 6 of my ever-unfinished novel. 

Angela, demon temptress that she is, has learned well from having been born inside my head.  She knows all my weaknesses, and how to exploit all temptations to the fullest.  She is very good at what she does.  As a being of my mind, she also knows one very important thing:  that if I am not able to take this first step, and fulfil my promise to myself for today, then there is no hope at all of my ever making it to the end.  This, of course, is her lofty goal, and knowing just how easy it would be to foil a whole year's plans in a single day, she got excited, she tried too hard.  Instead of letting me look at how awful my 6th chapter was, how hard it might be to fix, and then slowly trying to coax me into doing "just one more thing" that could be instantly gratifying, she leaped into my lap instead. 

"Look at me!  Not the screen!"  She whined,  "Don't you remember that House is on tonight?  And you have that new bag of kettle corn!"

She tried too hard, which made me finally see what was going on, and I did just that.  I looked at her.  That's when my sultry, mysterious, subtle temptress became my pushy girlfriend instead.  I know just what to do with those.

Angela has spent the last hour  tied up and gagged in the corner, whimpering in frustration.  I spent it writing this, and my sadistic side likes that just fine. Now I have a silly bit of short fiction, not my most glorious erotica, to be sure, but it fulfils the quota of something new or better for today. Tomorrow, I can go on to bigger and better things. Maybe Angela has met her match.