2. That’s when I knew. I had found my muse
2
That’s when I knew. I had found my muse
Chapter Playlist:
“Every Breath You Take” – Sting – Nightcore Cover
“Monster” – Meg and Dia
“Chokehold” – Sleep Token
ACHERON
She is mine.
She simply doesn’t know it yet.
The first time I saw her was in the remote cemetery since I frequent isolated and haunted locales for inspiration. She emerged through the mist like a spirit from another age. Her silhouette was delicate yet commanding, her body moving like watercolor spilling across a canvas, soft and fluid, yet deliberate. Like calligraphy—every step, every sway, a flourish. Her vintage white dress clung to her figure, her long dark hair cascading down her chest in gentle waves. She stepped into the cemetery as if it were her stage, completely unaware that she had captivated her audience of one.
I remember how she knelt at each gravestone, drawing her leather-bound book from her satchel. The quill pen she held was like an extension of her fingers, gliding across the pages as she scrawled notes in an elegant script. She didn’t just visit the dead; she communed with them. She whispered to the gravestones as if the souls could whisper back. Her soft, melodic voice danced in the air, and I imagined the dead were as bewitched as I was, clawing at their coffins to hear her better.
She even brought a picnic: a modest spread of bread, cheese, and honey. The sight of her lifting a slice of bread was so simple, yet it burned into my mind. I could almost taste the honey on her lips, and all I could think about was stealing a kiss…and her breath. I sketched her as she moved from grave to grave, capturing her every angle, every motion. She didn’t notice me. So utterly consumed by her world.
That’s when I knew. I had found my muse.
She was a world unto herself. Everleigh Lennox.
When she finally packed her things and left, I followed her. The hotel she chose was plain, unassuming. But being rich and famous has its advantages. A polite word, a quick signature, and a generous tip to the staff, and I secured a key to her room. The door opened without a sound. Inside, I found her cocoa cooling on the nightstand. It was easy enough to add a little something. Just enough to ensure she would sleep deeply, blissfully unaware.
The sketch I left on her pillow was my favorite: her soft, delicate form clad in the antique nightgown that accentuated her contours in all the right ways.
Authentic and refreshing, Everleigh doesn’t fake some vintage, bookworm cliche. Unlike me, she has little to no social media presence. While she could have a large internet audience intrigued by her work and travels as a historian—hell, even her unique fashion finds—Everleigh is married to her work.
She sweeps into the past. Not with confidence or eagerness…but with honor and respect. Much like I do with my work.
Watching her now as she examines my sketches in her new AirBnB, I wonder if she recognizes my style. I’ve painted cityscapes and crafted such vast murals, they stand as recognized landmarks. The surreal masks I wear during performances have become my signature, my shield. The anonymous artist, who draws crowds with his performative art set to dark music themes, has won infamy. I step into the spotlight, creating art for a roaring audience, but none of it moves me anymore. Not like her.
Everleigh Lennox. The name took me minutes to uncover, but her story? That unraveled like a tapestry. The adopted and adored daughter of John and Glenda Lennox came into their lives after years of fruitless attempts at children. Her determination and resourcefulness are admirable. Scholarships and internships paved her way to the Smithsonian, where she honed her passion for preserving the past. She’s devoted to history.
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.
When she reaches the door, finding it locked from the inside due to the metal pole I secured at its back, Everleigh flees into the kitchen. Oh, so adorable when she grabs a cleaver from the butcher block, gripping it and waving it around like a butterfly attacking a battleaxe.
“Get away, you goddamn devil!” she screams, holding the counter with her other hand, moving away the more I close in.
“Trust me, sweet scribe, I am far worse than the devil,” I leer, following as she weaves around the counter, walking backwards, her vision whirling. Fuck, if she keeps doing that, she’s going to trip. Never a wise idea with a blade in her hands.
“That’s what the crazy psychos in those erotic horrors all say,” she practically slurs.
I chuckle, more than amused since I’ve done my homework. “How would you know, sweet thing?”
She pales, realizing her mistake. How I will thrill in bringing all those suppressed, dark fantasies to life.
Recovering, Everleigh takes the blade in both hands and forces bravery in her voice, “You’re still just a man. You can still bleed.”
Sweeping my cape to the side, I pause mid-stride and clench my black-gloved hand into a fist, cracking the leather. “If you spill one drop of my blood, Little Quill, I’ll return it tenfold.”
That has her stopping, her lips parting in a pretty ‘O’. A second later, the cleaver clatters on the floor. Good girl, I reflect as she scurries like a frightened rabbit toward the front door.
She unlocks the knob, then goes for the deadbolt.
I catch her hair in a death grip, stealing a cry from her throat. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…” I click my tongue. “So close, Everleigh.”
She blinks rapidly. Swallows hard. When I lift my hand to cup her throat, I can practically feel her pulse thundering through my glove.
Intrigued, I tilt my head again, inspecting those tear-glistening eyes, turned from misty gray to melted silver, but her lips pressed together with no protests or sounds. “Why aren’t you screaming?” I list my fingers to those sensual, pouty lips I can’t wait to kiss.
“Why bother?” she responds, clenching her eyes.
Smart girl. No one could possibly hear her.
She trembles, shivering beneath my grip. “Wh-what are you g-going to do t-to me?”
Leaning closer until she can feel my hot breath curl across her face, I lower my voice to a deep hum and say, “Much.”