My muse, lying so still on the quilted sheets, stripped nude and waiting for my attentions. Her skin so soft and white, so ready to be my story, so wanting the words. Her breath is short and excited. She doesn't know what is to come tonight. She will be so much more when I am done, she will be eternal.

I place the pile of quills and the bottle of ink on the night stand next to me and draw out my short knife, finely honed for stripping the quills as needed. I take the first quill and slice, enjoying the feel of the blade cutting it so easily. Two strokes of the knife later, and the quill is prepared, razor-sharp and ready to scribe my tale into her flesh.

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 is 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 collarbone I write these things with great descriptions of her flesh and his wants. Then upon the collarbone, 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, which decorate her shoulders like the facade of decency that 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 pinpoint 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.

Blowing my ink dry, I wait a moment, allowing her to regain herself. Then I flip her upon her belly and begin once again on the shoulders, but more excited now, the story having fired my blood. With great slashing handwriting, I scribe across her shoulders and down her back an excited text of rough feels and squeezes, groping and touching and pinching down her spine as the sweat gathers on my brow. The story is fevered now in temperament.

Across the small of her back I pause, and allow a tender moment: mouth to nipple for the first gentle suck, as lips wrap around the sensitive virgin flesh. Then the moment grows almost to tears as he gives her also her first bite, hard and delicious on her flesh. I write of her squeals and begging for more. This virgin is more slut, I am thinking, but I love her all the more.

Across the ass with hard hand, I etch the story of his cock and her first touch, her fascination and desire and then her first taste. Wet and sloppy sounds across her ass cheeks, sucking and licking and kissing. Hair grabbed and face filled down the round of my muse's sweet bottom, and I can smell how much she appreciates my tale. The glory of her attentions to his cock scrawled down the backs of her thighs in excited strokes barely legible.

The quill is through, and I grab another. Frantic in my efforts, I strip it sharp and roll my muse over, not caring for the words to dry fully, the sheets will blot it fine. Upon her lower ribs I write of the first touches of his fingers on her lips, feeling her arousal and desire. Slippery and hot, she beckons him. Down the belly I write of the fear and excitement she feels, her own belly filled with butterflies waiting for the moment she becomes a woman.

Then circling the belly button of my muse, I describe that moment, that delicious moment of his cock rubbing in her slit, getting wet from her as it is rubbed up and down driving her mad. Finally she begs for it and is deflowered in one long hard thrust. She screams in pleasure/pain as he violates her, penetrates her, corrupts her. My muse's belly covered in her de-virginizing.

Spreading her legs like a rapist, I ready my muse for the final scenes. With great sadistic pleasure I write hard and deep upon her inner thighs of sucking and fucking, of screams and moans and wails, of the wet sounds of sex and ragged breathing in each other’s ears. As I climb higher up the thigh, my virgin slut is begging him to cum, needing him to fill her as she screams to orgasm.

My sweat drips upon my muse, but I do not care now, so close the ending, so close the all-important ending. My muse is quivering under my writing, and I grin as I see traces of red joining the black. Good, I think, virgins bleed, so shall my story. I must also admit I am more aroused with the red trickles and urged to a more fevered climax of the tale.

At the crux of the leg and torso I write of almost cumming, being so close to the edge and denied, withheld, of her screaming and needing and begging and wanting, so close to final release and held there so it may build and build, teased and tormented until the fire will not be denied.

Upon her labia, my sweet muse, upon those wet lips do I write of cumming and wetness and fillings. Of squirting and pinching and screams of triumph. The ink runs with her wetness and my muse adds realism to my tale. Her flesh is quivering and on the same verge as my quill scratches and etches passion into her inner folds. She is moaning for me, having been good so long and taken the story quite well.

Then as the tale is finished, I need only one more piece to my work. With quill tip razor sharp do I gently pry the hood back, so gently and carefully to reveal her aching nub, begging to be nibbled and licked. So swollen and ready, it is a ripe fruit I can barely resist. Leaning closer until my lips do almost touch, I speak for the first time to her, my words wet and heavy to the air, spoken hard so their force does reach out and touch.

"The End." I say, and those two words, like a lick and nibble, are enough. The force of them and the vibration and my muse is exploding and firing my story on her skin. The fire in her spills out and drips down her ass. Her appreciation for my tale is amazing as she lays there quivering after. She loves my writing.

Now I stand back and admire my work in full. Covered with the tale of decadence, she is complete. She is more than my muse, she is part of the tale. She is eternal, for a tale told remains forever, even if unheard. She has become my story and my artwork. I drop the quill to the floor and slump down, satisfied with the nights work.

- By David Williams