Page 4 of The Art of Obsession
My Little Quill. She preserves with words, delicate and precise. I preserve with paint and charcoal, bold and eternal. We are the same.
Soon, she’ll see.
Of course,I drugged her wine.
So quaint of her to believe she could control the security system with a new password when I’d already installed a failsafe. Not to mention cameras all over the house. Until now, I’d only installed one or two in her other hotel rooms, resolved to savor before spying on her naked.
She is a dream.
With soft shadows and firelight playing upon her delicate face, Everleigh has curled up on the couch with the wool throw, still clutching her leather book to her chest. Her dark hair falls down her body in thick, luscious waves. She is lost in a deep sleep, but I am pleased that her body still responds when I scrawl my knuckles upon her cheek. Gooseflesh rises. She shivers, holding the book tighter.
She fell asleep in her day clothes, a long red plaid skirt and a snug, black long-sleeved shirt that flatters her pretty, plump breasts. Gods, what a rarity she is!
I chuckle, amused by the fire poker nearby.
I appreciated her response after she burned a few sketches. It’s nearly enough to forgive her for throwing away the others. Nearly. Tonight, she will pay for the transgressions of disobeying me. I will train her as I prepare for her to enter my world. Ever since I hit six figures, I’ve spent years planning my intentions. I credit none other than my own fucking self for the nature of my dark and twisted desires.
No, I was never the type to torture animals. How fucking sadistic. After my younger years of blood and shadow, I dabbled in forbidden street art. Mostly splatterpunk and grimdark. As I grew older, I moved to underground BDSM clubs, honing my natural dominance and putting on shows, discovering how lucrative performative art was.
But I never truly found a subject worthy enough to rouse all my dark and demented desires. Until now.
I make my way around the couch, push the sensor to dim the fireplace, and shift Everleigh until she’s resting on her back, a little sigh easing from her lips. Lips I will soon taste. But I am eager to explore another set at the moment.
I am counting on her to wake. I’m counting on her to run. And I will thoroughly enjoy the delicious chase, eager to know how she responds with the drug in her system.
Thin stockings cover her legs, and I gently reach under her to remove them, peeling them down her luscious thighs and lower, exposing more of her lovely pale skin, blemish-free. Like lace and moonlight. What a palette her skin will represent.
Everleigh stirs, moaning softly, but she does not open her eyes. Tracing my fingers along her delicate limbs is an art form in and of itself. Like sweeping a brush across a canvas in long, fluid strokes until I arrive at the core of her femininity. I shift the fabric of her skirt up, revealing her modest underwear. That will change once she’s in my care.
I put my nose to her pussy, breathing in her scent. God, she smells divine. She showered shortly before she arrived, her preferred body wash of vanilla and cinnamon. The moment I lightly draw my fingers across the thin cotton, Everleigh flinches. Twisting my lips into a smirk, I apply a hint of pressure and touch her sensitive nub through the fabric. She whimpers, not quite ready to stir. Yet.
Taking another deep breath, I tenderly glide my fingers beneath her underwear and touch her labia, probing her inner folds. My cock jerks in my pants at my discovery.
“Hmm…wet already, sweet girl?” I muse with pleasure, eager to fill her. But timing is everything, and I will have her in my exhibit when I fuck her for the first time. For now, I penetrate her slick opening with one finger…sliding to the knuckle. “God, you’re fucking tight, Little Quill,” I say in a lowered voice with blood surging to my length, making it uncomfortable. Tonight, I will stretch her, preparing her for my thicker girth.
When I curve my finger, stimulating her G-spot, Everleigh flutters her lashes open. Her whole body locks up, her inner muscles squeezing like a glove around my finger. I tilt my head as she shakes hers out, her eyes no doubt struggling to focus through the drug-induced film. And then, they widen.
Yes, Everleigh Lennox, I know what you see. A masked stranger with his finger inside you.No ordinary mask. I design all mine, scrawling surreal blood drops and drips upon the full-facial mask of pure white. It compliments my crimson, three-piece suits and my custom black cape. A persona I have honed over several years as a performative artist.
Whether she recognizes such persona is unclear, but after the shock wears off, she squeezes around my finger again. Mmm…I knew there was a dirty slut in there somewhere. Such a good girl.
The next second is a blur of kicking limbs, flailing arms, and blood-curdling shrieks as my little historian scrambles off the couch and hurries to the opposite side.
With dark confidence, I rise, lift my middle finger to the mouth gap in my mask, and slide her juices-covered finger into my mouth.
What leaves my throat is halfway between a hiss and a hungry snarl. “Delicious…” I whisper and crouch.
“It’s…you’re him!”
Her eyes flick to the drawings, then back to me, the irises catching the dim reflection of the firelight, turning the deep gray to a silver storm.
After another moment of our gazes locked, hers caught in mine like sweet prey, I lean more over the couch, lower my hands to the armrest, and whisper, “Boo.”
She bolts.
“Yes, run, Little Quill,” I laugh as my antiquarian rushes for the sliding glass door of the kitchen, her dark hair waving wildly.
The drug shows its evidence in how she staggers, stumbles, plowing hard into the counter. Hmm…that will likely leave a bruise. How pretty.
