Once upon a time . . . as all good tales begin and so too shall ours and it shall be a tale of decadence and desire. . . Of passion and flesh but it shall be more, so much more. It shall be not just scribed by hand to paper as any common pulp fiction. No . . . this tale shall be more. It shall be not only about the flesh but of the flesh. I shall make her my tale, she will be my canvas and she will be my passions. I will make of her virginal form a work of debauchery that will make angels weep. She will be my muse, my flesh, my tale. So let us begin again. . .

Once upon a time there was my muse, lying so still on the quilted sheets, stripped nude and waiting for my attentions, virginal and pure, waiting for my corruptions and defilement. Her fall from grace by my hand . . . her damnation, by my word. Her skin so soft and white, so ready to be my story, so wanting the words. Never has a page been so wanting for the word upon it as she is laying there waiting for me. 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.

Next to her I place a pile of quills and the bottle of ink on the night stand and draw out my short knife, razor sharp for stripping the quills as needed for the deeds of the night to come. 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 ready, scalpel sharp and ready to scribe my tale into her flesh.

She waits for me. My perfect muse . . . she waits to become more 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 so perfect for the task at hand; so dark and decadent and rich in color. She quivers at the sound of the tap so I tap again. Then again just to see it resonate through her flesh . . . tiny responses, a deepening of the blush by fractions, a tiny quiver, and the flush of her lips. Never has a page been so wanting for the word or more worthy of the tale. I dip the quill once more into the richness of ink and then I turn back to her and she bites her lip and closes her eyes. She tilts her head back and I am ready to begin. The tip touches her flesh so gently at first and then harder until I hear her breath drawn in sharp. A slight puncture of the skin and we are begun, the small trickle of blood the last vestige of virginity.

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 and such further machinations of debauchery planned that minds do spin at the thought.

To the collar bone I write these things with great descriptions of her innocent flesh and his far less then innocent intentions. Then upon the collar bone, 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. They decorate her shoulders like the facade of decency hangs from my story, each letter carved into her bringing us closer to the meat.

I throw the first quill away, the tip not so sharp as my hunger any more and it threatens to dull the banter that will set our tale spinning and so I grab another. Her breathing is much more excited now, the tale is beginning to take hold and infest her mind. 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. One must suffer for art and she will suffer mine, each word, each letter shall she endure for sake of the tale. The thought of it sets me stiff with want and makes my mouth wet with anticipation of 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. She is coy but wanting, he is persistent and clever. Seduction a game played well by both as mind and flesh align, desires begin to manifest and hungers moan and then roar in need like primordial beasts awakening within.

Around the sensitive nipples I apply extra zeal and loving attention and she moans for me, my precious muse, the sharp pain making the nipples stand up for greater length to my tale. I am drawn in to them as he is drawn to her. My quill eliciting wondrous noises from her throat that she has never made before as I scribe words more passionate . . . words no longer hinting but brazenly open and hungry. 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 pin point tip. Precision is called for here and the tip must by so fine as to grasp each nuance and touch. The ink must convey the hungers exploding and the need screaming so my hand must be steady as I write. Leaning in close I make sure to etch each nipple with the vulgarities of hard passionate kisses and licks, with each sensation and each building urge. Each stiff nipple is now telling of the tale and part of it. Each stretching the tale as they achingly reach out to take more ink and more quill. The very tip of them I save though and then with great delight add the punctuation, a sharp period for each stinging into them. My muse cries out in adulation, the art and words making her eyes swell with tears. So much does she love my tale, so much does she need to know it to finish, that she pleads with me with looks that only a lover can see. She begs me with her eyes to take it further and to make it complete. The tale has her now and she cannot help but love the devouring as it swallows her whole.

Blowing my ink dry I wait a moment. . .allowing her to regain herself . . . making her wait . . . her flesh quivering for want of my quill, her soul aching for want of the art. I flip her upon her belly and begin once again on the shoulders, but more excited now, the story having fired my blood. I mount her and sit cradled between her cheeks, my arousal shared with her. Nestled firmly in place and throbbing with ideas, I begin again. With 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. Hands on her flesh that grasp harshly and leave bruises from want. Her grabs and squeezes as she unleashes herself and then kisses. . . Kisses so passionate that both seem to melt into them. Kisses that taste. Kisses that devour. Kisses that strike the final blow to pious virginal thoughts and welcome the dark with sweet wetness and loving tongue. This is the passion of discovery. This is the passion of new flesh and new desire. I write it upon her back, under each shoulder blade. The tale threatening to break free of word and consume her form whole. I press against her so that each can feel the fevered pulse of the other, throbbing and pulsing and aching for more of the tale.

Across the small of her back I slow and allow a tender moment. My words detail mouth to nipple for the first gentle suck as lips wrap around the sensitive virgin flesh. The shock and then pleasure as flesh is released and touched . . . defiled with a kiss so gentle that it cries out for more . . . darker. . . Then the moment grows almost to tears as teeth embrace and the kiss becomes a bite, also a first. Flesh awakened to the pleasures of pain as the teeth dig hard and delicious into her flesh. I write of her squeals and quivers and pleas for more. This virgin is pure no more as she cannot hold back the whore within that needs and craves and begs and whimpers. Teeth leave their mark, their claim to her innocence. The story deepens and darkens . . . the tenderness shredded and discarded as raw passion consumes.

Across the ass with hard hand I etch the story of his cock and her first touch. Her fascination and desire. . . the adoration of the hard length and pulsing veins. I write of her mouth watering and mind craving to taste, to feel, to savor. Wet and sloppy sounds etched across her ass cheeks, sucking and licking and kissing, his first gentle urging and then harsh hair grabbings, being pushed down, being ordered, loving it and wanting more. Hair pulled harder and face filled down the round of my muse's sweet bottom, the words rushed in excitement and urgency, the scene and the words all that there is. Force and effort and slobber and drool from the inevitable gag and panic. Rudely she is used to the edge of breath, the hardness encompassing her thoughts and attentions. I can smell how much she appreciates my tale and she can feel my own appreciation smearing upon the small of her back as the tale grows to frenzy. With fevered hand I scrawl the glory of her attentions to his cock down the backs of her thighs in excited strokes barely legible. The ink now wetter and wetter and the tip cutting deeper and deeper; the tale is exploding within my words and her flesh.

The quill is not sharp enough so I throw it across the room. This is too powerful for anything less then razor sharp. The passion is too volatile for anything but complete and utter precision. I grab another quill and the knife. Frantic in my efforts I strip it sharp, fast and evil cuts make it ready for ink, for passion, for debauchery. I roll my muse over with a slap on the ass and rough throw, not caring for the words to dry full, the sheets will blot it fine and the tale is beyond caution now. 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, spreading and beckoning violation. 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; her sweet wet pit ready, ripe, wanting. And I write of his teasing, his denials, his “almosts” and not “yets” until she begs like a whole for feeding.

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. Of wet feelings and urgings and begs. Of his throbbing need and fevered desires. Finally she is ready and wanting and beyond humanity. . .a creature. . . a mewing writhing thing of need and hunger. It happens harshly. One long slow thrust that does not end until she is impaled and deflowered. She screams in pleasure/pain as he violates her, penetrates her, and corrupts her. My muse's belly covered in her de-virginizing. The quill draws blood excitedly because there is always blood when a flower is plucked right.

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 so that she moans the story to me as the quill digs into her and creates the passions. I write of screams and moans and wails; of the wet sounds of sex and ragged breathing in each others ears, of bites and spanks and nipples pulled until she begs for mercy. There is no mercy here though. This tale is not a tale of mercy. The steady, hungered need drives me to deeper, darker descriptions. As I climb higher up the thigh, my virgin slut is begging with whimpers and mews to cum, needing him to fill her as she screams to orgasm. She is not human any more. She is his creation of pure desire.

My sweat drips upon my muse but I do not care now, so close the ending, so close the all important ending. I am breathing roughly . . . she moves and I push her back to place. My quill is penetrating her, my words violating her in ways she has never experienced. The tale is all. The tale must finish. My muse is quivering under my writing and her own juices drip and join the red of her blood and the ink. . . My tale is created of ink and sex and suffering. It is pure. This is pure. She is the story now.

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 and denied the final step until she cannot speak, she cannot think, she cannot deny the animal within. So close to final release and to the edge and back again and again. It is torture so sweet that it drives her mad. Teased and tormented until the fire within has burned through any last vestiges of humanity.

Upon her labia, my sweet muse, upon those wet lips do I write of cumming and wetness and fillings. Of squirting and fucking and thrusts and pinching and screams of triumph and wet, wet endings that fill and spill and puddle. The ink runs with her wetness and my muse ads soul 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 so well. . . the tale almost . . . finished. . .the story alive within her thighs.

Then as the tale is told to wet and satisfying conclusion with quill tip razor sharp do I gently pry the hood back and reveal her final secret. So gently and carefully do I reveal her aching nub, begging to be nibbled and licked, that the cool air and my breath is like an invisible tongue licking at her, driving her to the very edge of sanity. 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."

And then to end the tale do I place one final formality, one final punctuation to mark the conclusion. One last stab of ink to end all that has occurred properly. This is too much for my muse to bear . . . too much by one touch. She screams and her body convulses like she is on fire. She screams and grabs at me and her back arches and drops only to rise and arch again. Her breath, all screamed out, is gulped in mouthfuls of air that escape with guttural moans and groans until she is empty once more.

Now I stand back and admire my work in full. Standing full over her I look at my story, my tale, my muse writhing like a wild animal. She looks up at me with wild eyes. Covered with the tale of decadence she is complete. She is more then my muse, she is part of the tale, she is the defiled and the defiler . . . the innocent and the corrupt. 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 with that same hand that penned this adventure in lust. . . covered in ink and her wetness and trickles of virgin blood . . . with that same hand I allow myself finally to fully appreciate her. With a great howl I finish this tale and I complete her artwork.

She is my muse. She is the tale. She is the passion.

And now she is done.

And they all lived happily ever after.