“Death, the only immortal who treats us all alike, whose pity and whose peace and whose refuge are for all — the soiled and the pure, the rich and the poor, the loved and the unloved.” ~~ Mark Twain
He laid on his stomach, head on his hands, naked. She straddled his waist using his ass as a cushion, knees bent, naked.
In one hand she held an inkwell filled with deep indigo blue ink and in the other a feather quill with a gold nib.
Her hair cascaded down over her shoulders with rippling waves down her back. He felt the spring of her pubic hairs against his flesh.
“What should I write?”
“Whatever you feel.”
“No, that’s too dark. You tell me the story.”
“No, I want your words.”
“I can’t do it then.”
He felt the bed shift with her weight as she leaned over to put the ink and quill back on the nightstand.
“Yes you can. It doesn’t matter what you write, just write from your soul.”
“That’s even worse. No, definitely can’t.”
He sighed. She bent forward, he felt her hair caressing his back and light kisses over his shoulders. He didn’t move.
“Frustrated. I want your words, it’s simple. What are you afraid of? I have your body.”
She sat back. He still didn’t move, only closed his eyes, feeling her breathing. A few heartbeats later, the bed shifted again. She leaned over to take up the quill and ink once more. She started slowly, tentatively, at his upper left shoulder, writing across his back to the other shoulder. He felt the quill, the nib a little rough, dragging across his skin. It was pleasurable, an odd sensation, the ink feeling like blood and the nib needle-like. As she fell into her thoughts, dragging the nib against his flesh, dipping the quill more often than for paper, her pace picked up. By the time she reached his mid-back her writing was frantic. He smiled.
He remained quiet, passive, allowing her to manipulate his body as she required. Quickly writing down his back and over his ass. She spread his legs so she could write on the inside of his thighs. The sensation of her touch, the intensity of her silence pouring thoughts through her ink onto his skin, her breath quickening as emotions crescendo within her, aroused him. If she noticed she made no effort to acknowledge his need.
When she reached the soles of his feet she began blowing across his skin like trying to cool a bowl of soup. She wanted to make sure the ink was dry before turning him over. He waited motionless until he felt one of her hands gently push at his hip, then he rolled over to his back. She began in reverse, starting at his feet, teasingly sitting on his stomach, his hard-on now aching. He resisted the urge to grab her ass or touch her in any way. Forcing himself to be content with the vision of her bent forward, hair, breath, ink and quill mingling across his skin as she worked her way around the rest of his body. He pressed his head back against the pillow, the agony becoming almost unbearable, when she reached his hips. She held his cock, not stroking it or licking it despite his mind willing her too, but holding it steady to write.
He thought he would explode with the unexpected as she continued to scrawl words around his cock, balls, over his hips and finally working his abdomen. She backed up, rising up, her pussy tantalizing near his face, and her scent made him dizzy. A moan escaped his lips. He closed his eyes. Remaining still becoming a heady, excruciating test of self-control.
She stood up, shy but proud of her creation. He stood before the mirror, his skin stained blue, words gently cascading in swirls from her touch. He touched her face. She stood shivering, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. Pouring her words across his flesh left her emotions roiling inside, the darkness coming alive, clawing its way up, choking her throat, spilling its tarry blackness through every internal crevice. He watched her green eyes darken and took pleasure from her internal pain. He owned her body, easily, taking it when he pleased, she gave it away without resistance. Her soul, her inner self, her mind and emotions, however, she protected fiercely and forcing her to spill her words across his flesh opened the well within her. Watching her struggle with the sorrow that danced inside, seeing her attempt to remain standing, to not fall to her knees, fulfilled a gluttonous desire.
He waited, wiping the tear that finally fell with his thumb, watching her crumble, slowly. Her arms wrapped around herself like a child trying to self-comfort. Her body trembling. Silent tears and the struggle to keep the black dog from shredding her core apart. He waited until she finally fell to her knees, sobbing, shaking uncontrollably, her strength finally breaking under the strain. Her madness burst forth and he listened to her sobbing, drinking in her keening cries. She began rocking herself and his self-control ended. He kissed her breasts, licking her tears, made love to her there on the floor, in front of the mirror. He felt her clinging, her tears dripping down his back mixing with her words causing blue streaks, and with each sob he felt blissful release.
Her breathing became ragged, gasping, feeding his arousal more than her moist pussy or stiff nipples. He became rabid, insatiable, and she scratched his back creating a kaleidoscope of ink, tears and blood. With each thrust she released more darkness, flowing out of her, smoke-filled intensity. He tasted the salt on her cheeks, she clutched him tight, their chests pressed together and heaving, becoming like feral animals. She keened. He moaned. When she felt like she was splitting open, her skin splitting like a cicada breaking free from its cocoon, she stiffened, holding her breath; he shattered with release and she breathed again. Her mind spiraled into silence.
“Thanatos, when will you finally kill me?”
“Never, my love, without you I am nothing but a shadow on the edge of life.”