Page 14 of The Art of Obsession
He plays “Euclid” next, making me ponder what demons he may have…if they would dance with mine. Dark and twisted ponderings.
Pressure throbs inside me. Sweat coats my fingers, making it harder to write. These words threaten to consume me. Now and then, my eyes stray to those sketches, at the charcoal renderings where he beautified me, furthering my guilt.
“Aqua Regia” bleeds into the cabin speakers, hinting at his primal force. Whoever he is, he’s carved a name for himself, one that allows him to follow me cross country.
I lose track of the songs but not his touch.
Another finger stroke along my spine, a cool tingle flaring at the base. My inner muscles flutter, wetness flooding my pussy. I’m only fifty-six phrases in when he touches my upper thigh, fingers poised on my pubic bone.
Everything explodes.
The pleasure rips through me, tearing a cry from my mouth. I tip my head back, the orgasm heightening with his other hand gripping my throat. I drop the quill. I let go. It’s so intense. Like he’s pulling me into his world until I’m soaking in the beauty and bliss of those heated brushstrokes, dark and thrilling.
Every word I wrote drowns me, carrying me into a tide of hot, black ink until I’m shattering and trembling in the aftermath of the most explosive orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
And then, the dam breaks. Warm wetness of my urine mixed with my juices trickles down my thighs and collects in a pool between my kneeling legs. Humiliation burns through me. Because the relief that follows that orgasm is another level of pleasure, but I’m so utterly mortified, I break down, struggling to breathe from the gravity of what happened. Because he’s seen me at my weakest, my most vulnerable.
My pulse thunders in my ears.
He shifts, rising.
I was wrong. The worst part is when he gathers my trembling, wet body into his arms, and with excruciating tenderness, he carries me to the closest bathroom, settles me on the floor of the shower, and turns on the warm spray. Overcome, overwhelmed by everything, I curl up into the fetal position, crying the whole time as he peels off my tainted underwear, washes me there, then dries me off.
I’m paralyzed in the unexpected aftercare. Reduced to this miserable, childlike state. I can’t muster any words. Not even a whisper. All I can feel are his hands, his arms as he lowers me into the bed, still wrapped in a towel.
“You were perfect tonight, Little Quill—more exquisite than I could have imagined. Every stroke, every sound, every surrender was mine to cherish.” His gloved hand brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, his touch reverent. I close my eyes, unable to face him. “Rest now. I will soon have every part of you—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left untouched by my hand.”
The weight of his words settles over me like an unshakable shroud. He straightens. “Sleep well, Everleigh. The next time we meet, you’ll be even more beautiful for me.”
6
I’m in her mind, her body, her very soul
Chapter Playlist:
“Under My Skin” – Jukebox
“Ghost in the Machinery” – Sarah Brightman
ACHERON
The exhibit will be perfect.
I survey the cavernous gallery space—a blank canvas that will soon hold my triumph—a worthy sanctum of curated perfection, a theater of reverence for my art—for her.
It took all my resolve, all my goddamned control to leave her that night. Even when I cleaned the floor following her humiliation, I spent the rest of the evening in turmoil and ravenous hunger. How I fantasized about fucking her there and then with the fireplace glowing the redness in her cheeks, the piss on her thighs, and her screams filling my mouth. The sadist in me wants to know if she will bleed on my dick. But I’m not ready to break her…yet.
Our first time was like the discovery of uncut marble, knowing that each movement of a careful chisel, every sigh of a strike would turn into something divine. But I forced myself tostep back, to leave her unfinished—for now. Perfection demands patience.
I’ve waited years for her. I demand nothing less than perfection.
I won’t protect her. I will poison her. But she will beg me for the cure until she understands I am not only the cure…I am the very air she breathes.
I allow my gaze to sweep over the reclaimed parquet wood flooring I invested in from a 17th-century French chateau. My lips curl into a smile as I imagine the remaining transformation. The artifacts I’ve acquired—priceless antiques, rare historical relics—will breathe life into this place. Their value lies in their craftsmanship and their storied pasts but most in what they will symbolize.
Everleigh will not break a single thing.
The thought of her delicate, trembling hands as she walks through this space intoxicates me. She won’t dare. I’ll watch her navigate my treasures like a fragile dancer, knowing she is forever trapped in my music box. My crowning masterpiece will belong to me completely. Irrevocably mine.
