Page 23 of The Art of Obsession
Acheron is my Apocalypse
Chapter Playlist:
“Battlefield” – Svrcina
EVERLEIGH
I cometo thanks to something hard and hot circling the inside of my mouth.
Horror rips through me. I shriek and wail, unable to do anything but clench my fingers due to this chemical haze.
Acheron is shoving his cock in my mouth.
The tip tests the entrance of my throat. His knees are on either side of my head, but no pressure on my chest. I hear the rocking of the bed, the momentum of him gripping my bed frame as he plunges in and out of my mouth.
“Welcome back, Little Quill,” he says, voice deep and husky. “Fuck, your mouth is hot paradise. Suck me down. Yes, swallow as I go deeper, and it will be easier for you. That’s my girl…” he praises me when I obey.
Sweat and my tears drown the blindfold, but I focus on swallowing and sucking, keeping my teeth as far from his lengthas possible. Impossible to breathe, but I knowheknows what he’s doing, judging by his previous “breath play” remarks.
I can feel the brawn of his thighs, only the barest upper flesh while the rest of him is still dressed in his red suit.
My inner muscles squeeze, aching for something to fill me. My pussy is still soaked and swollen, my skin sizzling, my blood scalding. His tongue was like a hot blade, inflicting unbearable pain and pleasure. All my nerve endings come alive as I suck this man, this erotic stalker who has invaded my life.
He’s everywhere.
He’s big, Evie. Really big.
I can barely acknowledge Cherry right now. Not when he grips a handful of my hair, fists it, and shoves deeper. Denial rears inside me, swearing that I can’t possibly like this, want this. It’s the first time a cock has ever been in my mouth. My fiance and I…we never did anything like this.
Acheron pulls out, and I gasp for air. “That’s right, Everleigh. Breathe for me. And brace yourself,” he says right before plunging back inside. “Damn, I love those tears.” He pauses at the back of my throat and brushes a gloved finger along my cheek, collecting the wetness. “Like fucking razors under my skin. Making me need you more, need to possess you and protect you. My quintessential masterwork. The spirit in my veins.”
The words seep into my mind. They’ll make a bed there and haunt my thoughts.
He slides his cock forward, pushing into my throat, and I swallow, battling every urge to gag. His heat surrounds me. I feel him all the way to the base of my throat. I can’t fathom how he can go deeper, but he does! He has to be longer than ten inches.
When I seize the moment, follow my instincts, and stroke my tongue along the underside of the velvety skin of the well-endowed muscle, Acheron curses and pulls harder on my hair. My scalp cries, but I flick my tongue upward and suck harder.
“Fuck, just like that, Little Quill. My beautiful portraiture.”
I hate what his praise does to me, but I need it. I need the control that comes from using my tongue on him, stroking and sucking, and hearing his labored breath. He thrusts harder, his muscles bulging along each side of my jaw. I’m giving away pieces of myself, but he’s also giving himself to me. The twisted and most disturbed power exchange I can conceive of.
He pulls out again. I gasp as he touches his thumb to my lower lip. “Give me your breath, Everleigh Lennox. Know how much I need to use you, overpower you. Because it will make me hunger for you more, make you all mine until I show you my darkness.”
What kind of darkness does Acheron have? His performances, his themes are black, bloody, and intense. Such thundering crescendos while his persona would dominate the stage, dark and commanding. Just as he is now, dominating everything in me.
Even now, it feels like he’s pulling me into one of those performances where the ropes lift him—long swathes of fabric that coil around his body like serpents, pulling him upward. He glides through the air with an eerie grace, his cape swinging as his body twists and turns as if gravity bends to his will. In one hand, he holds a paintbrush—no, a weapon—and in the other, a palette of colors so vivid they seem to bleed into the air around him. They are bound to his arm, so he may hold the rope in one hand and the blade-like brush in the other.
He pounds my throat, and I sink into a daydream. No, a memory of his performance...
His strokes are violent like pools like blood on the canvas. I inhale deeply when he pulls back. Just like the crowd inhaling, on the edge of their seats.
He swings out over the audience, suspended by the ropes—just like I’m suspended—and with a flick of his wrist, paintsprays in a burst of black and gold, splattering across the canvas, surreal and raw.
“Fucking torturing me!” he exclaims in the moment, a possessive growl rumbling from his chest.
A firestorm tears through my blood.
The music in my memory from that performance shifts, growing darker, heavier like his themes—sin, death, the search for light.
