Page 43 of The Art of Obsession

“Pain” – Three Days Graceful

“Numb” – Linkin Park

“Corrupt” – Depeche Mode

ACHERON

The intoxicatingmelody of her uneven breath fills the room.

So fucking beautiful like this. Lingerie-clad. The same nightgown in which I first sketched her. Blindfolded, her lips part as if caught between a gasp and a moan.

I need her still for my first design. After binding her to where I want her, her chest rises and falls with fear…and lust.

I smirk at the wetness staining the lace covering her pussy. It’s taking everything to not stick my goddamn cock in her right now. But I have business dealings to consider, contracts to maintain.

The first time I fuck her, my clients will enjoy the show. They will not be present for what follows.

Only Dorian is present now, observing from beyond the one-way glass as I comb my fingers through my hair before I retrieve the first instrument I will use upon her here.

I light the candle slowly, letting her hear the strike of the match. Her body stiffens, and she sucks in a deep breath, tilting her chin slightly, searching for me.

The first drop of wax falls on her collarbone, and she gasps, her body jolting slightly.

“Shh,” I murmur, my voice soothing. “Trust me.” She snorts, but her face flushes with her arousal, her hips lifting. “Feel the bite of the wax, the rich lick of heat,” I command, tempting her as I tempt my audience.

She exhales shakily, her body relaxing despite the tension thrumming beneath her skin. Her eagerness and terror are delicious.

In her innermost being, she wants my cruelty, to be conquered and created.

I tilt the candle, letting the molten wax drip in deliberate lines, starting at the hollow of her throat. Her breath flares. The wax pools before cooling, leaving a delicate trail of crimson against her pale skin. I’ve chosen a deep red candle like old blood, vibrant and visceral.

With a steady hand, I begin to work, painting intricate lace-like patterns along her skin. Swirls and loops, delicate vines with thorn-like edges, flowers blooming from the curves of her shoulders. I work my way down her arms, tracing the lines of her veins, as if mapping her lifeblood.

“Do you feel it?” I whisper above her. “The way the heat blooms, how it cools and hardens? Every drop is a promise, Everleigh. Every line, a claim.”

She shivers.

When I snarl above her lips, making it clear I require her response, she clenches her jaw and whimpers. “I hate how good it feels.” Her voice is trembling but defiant.

“Hate it all you like,” I reply, letting another stream of wax drip along her hip, tracing the curve with precision. “But your body knows the truth. It always does.”

I move to her thighs, her legs shuddering slightly as I kneel before her. The wax clings to her skin, a vivid contrast to the softness of her flesh. My hand lingers, steadying her leg as I tilt the candle again.

Little by little, she settles, softening into the sheets, gliding upon the endorphins of pain. Now, I will give her pleasure.

With my other hand, I trace a lone finger along her wet pussy, lingering at her entrance through the fabric.

Her fingers curl into the blankets, her knuckles white. “Acheron,” she breathes. A plea. A curse. Surrender.

“Yes, Little Quill?” I ask with a smile. The design is nearly complete.

She doesn’t answer, only exhales shakily. I lean closer, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “You’re exquisite. Do you know that?”

A subtle shifting of her head. Her blindfolded gaze seeks mine. The vulnerability in her is intoxicating, but it’s the defiance still simmering beneath the surface that truly sets my blood on fire.

“You’re insufferable,” she manages, though her voice lacks its usual venom.

I chuckle, low and dark. “Perhaps. But you’re still here. Still mine. And oh, the suffering I will inflict upon you. For the creation must suffer with the creator. If the art does not bend or break, it cannot find beauty through the pain. Even if it must burn, it’s the only way to rise from the ashes.”