5. “Look how beautifully you’ve begun to take shape under my hand.”
5
“Look how beautifully you’ve begun to take shape under my hand.”
Chapter Playlist:
“Get Out Alive” – Three Days Grace
“Jaws” – Sleep Token
“Euclid” – Sleep Token
“Aqua Regia” – Sleep Token
EVERLEIGH
Maybe I do have a death wish.
Because it doesn’t seem to matter what he said before about “tenfold”. As I gaze up at his bloody mask, I fantasize about drawing real blood.
That could be kinky, Cherry chirps.
Do you ever stop? I groan.
Hey, you boring historian, I’m just the sexier survival side of your brain coping with the immediate trauma response of being trapped with a deranged artist by redirecting fight-or-flight into fight-and-flirt, she quips, her tone sharp and clinical, far too much like me. But of course…she’s mocking. Your cortisol levels are spiking, so I’m balancing that with a little adrenaline-fueled attraction. It’s basic neurochemical self-preservation.
Self-preservation? You’re imagining bloodplay with a stalker!
Cherry shrugs in my head. Better than freezing up or having a panic attack, isn’t it? Besides, have you seen his shoulders in that suit? And those neck muscles? Peak specimen. If we’re going down, might as well make it memorable.
I wrinkle my nose. You’re the worst coping mechanism ever.
And yet, Cherry hums, you’d be lost without me.
I wish she wasn’t right.
One leather-clad finger lifts my chin, drawing my eyes deeper into the mask. My lower lip trembles with fear and a misplaced lust from the memory of him kissing me.
“What now?” I glare. “If you’re going to have your way with me, just get it over with, so all this can be done.”
He tilts his head, the edges of the mask shifting, betraying his amusement. “Oh, sweet Everleigh. Do you think I’d waste our first night together in a place as uninspired as this?” I hold my breath until he continues, “When I have my way with you, it will be in a setting worthy of the masterpiece you are. But…” He trails the finger along my jawline before tapping my nose as if scolding a child. “You disrespected my work, and there must be a cost. Ruining my art demands correction, discipline. Beauty must be shaped, after all.”
My blood runs cold. What does he mean? Discipline.
Before I can ponder more, he takes my hand. My spine prickles, needling me with the sense that this is a test. If I try to bolt or fight, that strong hand will do far more. My heartbeat picks up as my mind wars over the options, the risks. But I can’t escape.
Until I know what this correction is, I resist the urge to fight or flee. Instead, I follow him into the sitting room. The nude sketches are still scattered on the table, and I wince, remembering how I woke up with him fingering me, my mind in a haze.
The haze is clearing, bringing a heightened awareness until I notice another sensation…far more uncomfortable…coming from my overloaded bladder.
He pauses before the sofa.
I flick my eyes to those glinting pupils in the black expanse of his eyes. “Are you going to bend me over the couch and spank me?”
“How adorably delicious are your thoughts, Little Quill.” I pale, but he moves on quickly, “To answer your question, no, my punishment plans do not include your bottom…tonight. At least not in that manner.”
He retrieves something from his coat pocket. My breath hitches at the gold quill pen. A knot gets stuck in my throat as I soak in the sight. French Victorian Edwardian. Fully hallmarked on its feather curve end.
“Th-that’s a…five thousand dollar quill.”
I’m clenching, Evie. Fucking clenching!
I ignore Cherry as my stalker says, “Good. You will be eager to use it for its intended purpose.” I hold his gaze as he gestures to the couch and my leather journal I dropped earlier. “You will open your book and write the phrase “I will not destroy Master’s art” one hundred times or until you come.”
“Until I what ?!”
He captures my chin again, voice gravelly, “Art may be messy at times, but rest assured, I always take great pains to care for my work. Since you will be working hard for some time with the crackling fireplace, I insist you must not overheat in such stifling clothes.”
My eyes go wide, and I freeze at the touch of his fingers at the buttons on my skirt. “You have some sort of teacher-on-student fantasy?”
He snickers, undoing the first two buttons.
You said it this time. Cherry blows a raspberry. Not me. And you’re more fucked up than
me right now.
Why?
Because he’s almost down to the last button. And you’re not moving.
Shit. As soon as his hand collides with my underwear, I jerk. His whole mask seems to harden. I choke when he firmly grips my skirt and yanks me forward until I can feel his massive hard-on through his pants.
“The time for escape is over, Everleigh,” he reminds me through gritted teeth.
“It’s not…I mean…I have to go to the bathroom.”
“How fitting. This will be a fair test for me to appraise how well you respond to my command…and my attentions.”
He’s not going to let me pee? A deep flush spreads through my cheeks and lower, but he drops my skirt before I can process, pooling it around my feet. I clench my eyes shut, rubbing my thighs together, utterly mortified by how I’m squeezing my inner muscles, making me more aware of my bladder.
He starts on my shirt. I put up a weak protest, squeezing my arms together at first. But all it takes are those vampire-like eyes narrowing, piercing, for me to surrender.
“Such a sweet girl,” he commends me, seducing me. Every molecule of my blood is burning, overheating my center. “Such a lovely frame. Somewhere between petite and slender, your contours and angles are an artist’s wet dream. Your skin is the purest alabaster waiting to be carved and cut by my hand. The delicate curve of your collarbone, the subtle dip of your waist, the soft planes of your stomach—all perfectly balanced, like the strokes of a master’s brush. Fragile yet elegant.”
I shiver as he clutches my hips, black gloves against white skin. I try not to dwell on the carving and cutting reference. Or my body tingling.
“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.
He plays “Euclid” next, making me ponder what demons he may have…if they would dance with mine. Dark and twisted ponderings.
Pressure throbs inside me. Sweat coats my fingers, making it harder to write. These words threaten to consume me. Now and then, my eyes stray to those sketches, at the charcoal renderings where he beautified me, furthering my guilt.
“Aqua Regia” bleeds into the cabin speakers, hinting at his primal force. Whoever he is, he’s carved a name for himself, one that allows him to follow me cross country.
I lose track of the songs but not his touch.
Another finger stroke along my spine, a cool tingle flaring at the base. My inner muscles flutter, wetness flooding my pussy. I’m only fifty-six phrases in when he touches my upper thigh, fingers poised on my pubic bone.
Everything explodes.
The pleasure rips through me, tearing a cry from my mouth. I tip my head back, the orgasm heightening with his other hand gripping my throat. I drop the quill. I let go. It’s so intense. Like he’s pulling me into his world until I’m soaking in the beauty and bliss of those heated brushstrokes, dark and thrilling.
Every word I wrote drowns me, carrying me into a tide of hot, black ink until I’m shattering and trembling in the aftermath of the most explosive orgasm I’ve ever experienced.
And then, the dam breaks. Warm wetness of my urine mixed with my juices trickles down my thighs and collects in a pool between my kneeling legs. Humiliation burns through me. Because the relief that follows that orgasm is another level of pleasure, but I’m so utterly mortified, I break down, struggling to breathe from the gravity of what happened. Because he’s seen me at my weakest, my most vulnerable.
My pulse thunders in my ears.
He shifts, rising.
I was wrong. The worst part is when he gathers my trembling, wet body into his arms, and with excruciating tenderness, he carries me to the closest bathroom, settles me on the floor of the shower, and turns on the warm spray. Overcome, overwhelmed by everything, I curl up into the fetal position, crying the whole time as he peels off my tainted underwear, washes me there, then dries me off.
I’m paralyzed in the unexpected aftercare. Reduced to this miserable, childlike state. I can’t muster any words. Not even a whisper. All I can feel are his hands, his arms as he lowers me into the bed, still wrapped in a towel.
“You were perfect tonight, Little Quill—more exquisite than I could have imagined. Every stroke, every sound, every surrender was mine to cherish.” His gloved hand brushes a damp strand of hair from my face, his touch reverent. I close my eyes, unable to face him. “Rest now. I will soon have every part of you—piece by piece—until there’s nothing left untouched by my hand.”
The weight of his words settles over me like an unshakable shroud. He straightens. “Sleep well, Everleigh. The next time we meet, you’ll be even more beautiful for me.”