Page 13 of The Art of Obsession
“You’re not just a muse, Everleigh.” He tightens his hold. “You’re a living sculpture, each line and shadow begging to be immortalized. Even now, you are art in its rawest, most tantalizing form—unfinished, yet utterly flawless.”
His words light up every synapse in my brain, flooding my reward center despite the upcoming humiliation. I don’t shrink. Or lower my head with insecurity. I’m too busy melting into the floor.
“Now, my Little Quill,” he summons me, tapping my cheek and directing me to the couch. “You will kneel before the coffee table and begin writing. I will sit behind you and do my part in your discipline. Remember: one hundred times or until you give me your pleasure.”
It’s like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I should be fighting, scratching, kicking, biting. I should be doing whatever it takes to rebel. But he said he had no intentions of having his way with me tonight. I’d like to keep it that way rather than risk his anger.
So, I kneel. I kneel, flip open my book, and try to hold back the tears burning my eyes. He takes his place behind me. His body heat presses in on all sides. I hiss, my skin growing hotter, and it takes all my willpower to control my bladder. The wine I drank earlier, combined with all the drug-induced running, is wreaking havoc on my system.
His knees cage my shoulders on each side. And when he cups my chin from behind, lifting it, my pulse spins. “Correct posture, Everleigh. That’s a good girl,” he darkly coos before handing me the gold quill.
I part my lips, ready to ask for an inkwell, but he sets one on the table on my right. Another antique, priceless—one that guarantees I would never throw it at him.
With his glove still cupping my chin, I lower the end of the quill into the inkwell, draw it to the empty page, and carefully write the words “I will not destroy Master’s art”.
“Mmm, perfect penmanship. I am well-acquainted with your chicken scratch, Little Quill. Should I be flattered by your desire to impress me with your elegant calligraphy?”
His other hand drapes the warm leather of his knuckles along my left arm, brushing the swell of my breast. Nerve endings kindled, I bite back a gasp and mutter a rational response, “Or maybe I just predicted what you would want.”
“Regardless, I approve. And the knowledge that you considered my desires is intoxicating. You’ve pleased me, Little Quill. Look how beautifully you’ve begun to take shape under my hand.”
More heat engulfs me, a clear sign of how fucked up I am.
Not that fucked up, shrugs Cherry.You’re an only child. Adopted. Of course, you’re hypersensitive to praise and validation. Especially after what happened with?—
Don’t,I warn her, forcing the memory away.
She shuts up.
I stiffen, shivering from the lone finger tracing the curvature of my spine. My insides clench more, and I blush deeper, my body warring between its need to relieve itself and the mounting lust.
Somehow, I focus on the writing.
He takes my hair, shifting it to my left side, granting him access to the right side of my neck. A subtle caress of my skin thins my breath.
“Would you care for a song, Little Quill?”
The words stop me. At first,
I’m ready to answer ‘no’, but a song might help me focus on something other than his touch. So, I swallow, nod, and say, “Yes, please.”
His hand retreats, leaving my neck cold…until he holds my collarbone as the thick percussion opens the familiar song. An uncontrollable moan slips out. Of course, he knows the music I love.
“Soon, Everleigh Lennox…” he leans in, putting his lips along my hair and triggering more tears to grow. “You will show me your pretty, white jaws…where the delicate stops.”
Sleep Token.
“Jaws” might not be in my top three, but it’s far more fitting. No, not fitting. It’s flawless. He’s not my savior. And the more I write the lines, the more he touches me. I know he wants to cut me open, look inside me, and reshape my very soul.
When he lowers my bra strap and kisses my bare shoulder, I freeze. The quill slips, creating an unbecoming line at the end of ‘destroy’. Another soft kiss lands on the side of my neck.
I sink deep inside myself until my world narrows to the quill while his touches echo through me. The quill feels alive, an extension of my hand, yet his fingertips—gloved and deliberate—pierce deeper, pulling my focus away.
He shows his expertise, awakening all my erogenous zones, touching me intimately but not erotically. Seducing me. This is an art form he’s mastered.
My flesh betrays me, warring against the unbearable pressure in my bladder and his growing heat.
Through the haunting melody, each line I write feels like a confession, like a surrender. I can feel him watching, feel his intent in every brush of his knuckles, every shift of his weight. It’s not just my body he wants—it’s my essence, my raw core.
