From "The Muse"
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,
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 and drawing from them fresh red ink to continue our lusty tale. Her flesh torn asunder as my words brought images to her mind she would never have thought by herself. Now though, she was part and parcel to the story, her flesh dripping my tale of darkness.
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