The quill is throw and I grab another. Frantic in my efforts I strip it sharp and roll my muse over, not caring for the words to dry full, 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 devirginizing.
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 others ears. As I climb higher up the thigh, my virgin slut is begging 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 ads 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 and 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 then 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.