My muse, lying so still on the quilted sheets, stripped nude and waiting for
my attentions. Her skin so soft and white, so ready to be my story, so wanting
the words. Her breath is short and excited. She doesn’t know what is to come
tonight. She will be so much more when I am done, she will be eternal.
I place the pile a quills and the bottle of ink on the night stand next to
me and draw out my short knife, razor sharp for stripping the quills as needed.
I take the first quill and slice, enjoying the feel of the blade cutting it so
easily. Two strokes of the knife later and the quill is ready, razor sharp and
ready to scribe my tale into her flesh.
She waits for me. My perfect muse . . . she waits to become under my hand.
I lean forward and dip the quill into the ink and watch with great excitement
as I pull it free of the jar and tap off the excess, the midnight black ink so
perfect for the task at hand. So dark and decadent and rich in color. I turn
back to her and she understands, she tilts her head back and I am ready to
begin.
The quill tip on her throat is painful, I know this because I intend it to
be that way. Dangerous and yet controlled in my hand, what better tool for the
expression of passion. I write “Once upon a time. . .” on her bare throat and
the story begins. Upon that alabaster neck do I scribe the beginning of the
tale, the solicitations and introductions needed for the debauchery to come.
Her, a wanton nubile virgin, ripe for deflowering and willing to discover. Him,
a lecherous man with dark intentions of taking her flower.
To the collar bone I write these things with great descriptions of her
flesh and his wants. Then upon the collar bone, this succulent point of her
body do I begin to describe the meeting between the two. It is by chance, as
they always are in these tales. Eyes locking, thoughts raging, they are meant
for passions and they know it. Across her shoulders do I write of the banter
between them so as not to create a vulgarity, I will encapsulate their sex
within the guise of literary trappings. They decorate her shoulders like the
facade of decency hangs from my story.
I throw the first quill away and grab another. Her breathing is much more
excited now. Sharpening the quill with quick strikes I return to my work. She
squeals as the tip once again etches into her skin and the noise arouses me
more. Working down the breasts I am telling of their escape to privacy and
intimate speech. Flirtations and innuendo give way to overt desire and wanton
lust.
Around the sensitive nipples I apply extra zeal and she moans for me my
precious muse, the sharp pain making the nipples stand up for greater length to
my tale. Circling them with text I write of clothing ripped and shredded, rough
throws to the bed and the sound of shredding silk. The feel of lace ripping
away and with it any hope of virginity. And I write of passions unable to be
contained any longer.
Tossing my quill away I grab another and with great care slice it to a pin
point tip. Leaning in close I make sure to etch each nipple with the
vulgarities of hard passionate kisses and licks. Each stiff nipple now telling
of the tale and part of it. The very tip of them I save and then with great
delight add the punctuation, a sharp period for each stinging into them.
Blowing my ink dry I wait a moment. . .allowing her to regain herself.
Then I flip her upon her belly and begin once again on the shoulders, but more
excited now, the story having fired my blood. With great slashing handwriting I
scribe across her shoulders and down her back. An excited text of rough feels
and squeezes. Groping and touching and pinching down her spine as the sweat
gathers on my brow, the story is fevered now in temperament.
Across the small of her back I pause and allow a tender moment. Mouth to
nipple for the first gentle suck as lips wrap around the sensitive virgin
flesh. Then the moment grows almost to tears as he gives her also her first
bite, hard and delicious on her flesh. I write of her squeals and begging for
more. This virgin is more slut I am thinking but I love her all the more.
Across the ass with hard hand I etch the story of his cock and her first
touch. Her fascination and desire and then her first taste. Wet and sloppy
sounds across her ass cheeks, sucking and licking and kissing. Hair grabbed and
face filled down the round of my muse’s sweet bottom and I can smell how much
she appreciates my tale. The glory of her attentions to his cock scrawled down
the backs of her thighs in excited strokes barely legible.
The quill is throw and I grab another. Frantic in my efforts I strip it
sharp and roll my muse over, not caring for the words to dry full, the sheets
will blot it fine. Upon her lower ribs I write of the first touches of his
fingers on her lips, feeling her arousal and desire. Slippery and hot she
beckons him. Down the belly I write of the fear and excitement she feels, her
own belly filled with butterflies waiting for the moment she becomes a woman.
Then circling the belly button of my muse I describe that moment, that
delicious moment of his cock rubbing in her slit, getting wet from her as it is
rubbed up and down driving her mad. Finally she begs for it and is deflowered
in one long hard thrust. She screams in pleasure/pain as he violates her,
penetrates her, corrupts her. My muse’s belly covered in her devirginizing.
Spreading her legs like a rapist I ready my muse for the final scenes.
With great sadistic pleasure I write hard and deep upon her inner thighs of
sucking and fucking. Of screams and moans and wails. Of the wet sounds of sex
and ragged breathing in each others ears. As I climb higher up the thigh, my
virgin slut is begging to cum, needing him to fill her as she screams to
orgasm.
My sweat drips upon my muse but I do not care now, so close the ending, so
close the all important ending. My muse is quivering under my writing and I
grin as I see traces of red joining the black. . .good I think. . .virgins
bleed . . . so shall my story. I must also admit I am more aroused with the red
trickles and urged to a more fevered climax of the tale.
At the crux of the leg and torso I write of almost cumming, being so close
to the edge and denied, withheld. Of her screaming and needing and begging and
wanting. So close to final release and held there so it may build and build.
Teased and tormented until the fire will not be denied.
Upon her labia, my sweet muse, upon those wet lips do I write of cumming
and wetness and fillings. Of squirting and pinching and screams of triumph. The
ink runs with her wetness and my muse ads realism to my tale. Her flesh is
quivering and on the same verge as my quill scratches and etches passion into
her inner folds. She is moaning for me, having been good so long and taken the
story quite well.
Then as the tale is finished I need only one more piece to my work. With
quill tip razor sharp do I gently pry the hood back. So gently and carefully
and reveal her aching nub, begging to be nibbled and licked. So swollen and
ready it is a ripe fruit I can barely resist. Leaning closer until my lips do
almost touch I speak for the first time to her. My words wet and heavy to the
air, spoken hard so their force does reach out and touch.
“The End.” I say and those two words, like a lick and nibble are enough.
The force of them and the vibration and my muse is exploding and firing my
story on her skin. The fire in her spills out and drips down her ass. Her
appreciation for my tale is amazing as she lays there quivering after, she
loves my writing.
Now I stand back and admire my work in full. Covered with the tale of
decadence she is complete. She is more then my muse, she is part of the tale.
She is eternal for a tale told remains forever, even if unheard. She has become
my story and my artwork. I drop the quill to the floor and slump down,
satisfied with the nights work.