Page 80 of The Art of Obsession

When he traces his tongue along his lips, coated with my blood, I turn away, cringing.

“Tell me, Little Quill,”—he slides a finger in deeper, rimming my opening—“what about this is so disturbing?”

I clench my eyes and shake my head until he sharply pinches my clit.

“Ow!”

“Look at me,” he growls.

My cheeks turn beet red as I muster the courage to stare down at him.

One finger penetrates me, sliding to the knuckle and swirling in my wetness because I am wet…not just from my period.

“Who told you this is sick?” He places another kiss on my pussy and adds another finger. “Tell me now.”

Tears sting my eyes as I summon the willpower to share something long since buried. “Um…m-my grandmother. I was staying at her house when I—when it came the first time.”

My breath hitches as Cal removes his fingers and—oh, god…draws a circle around my navel.

“One moment.” He lifts a bloody finger, and with a crafty smile, the God of Art reaches into the end table’s drawer next to my bed, pulling out a thin paintbrush.

“Wh-what are you—oh, you can’t be serious!”

“Bloody serious,” he chuckles darkly before dipping the brush end in my pussy. “Continue, Everleigh.”

Honestly, Evie, it’s kind of romantic.There she is, out of the corner of my eye now, her wings fluttering as she leans down to kiss my cheek. I swear I feel it from her illusion.I mean, nothing says ‘I’m into you’ like finger-painting with your uterine lining. He’s a genius!

He’s a lunatic!

Tomato, tomahto.

I gasp as he strokes delicate and intricate patterns out from my navel, the wet, feathery end tickling my skin.

“M-m—” I rasp, then clear my throat, strengthening my voice, grateful when he lets me close my eyes. “Mine was early, and my mother never told me anything. They are from a different generation and didn’t really talk about it. But my grandmother was worse. She—” I gasp as the brush circles my areola and dabs at my nipple. But I still don’t open my eyes. I can’t deny how this is arousing me, balancing the throbbing aches.

“Go on.”

“It’s really hard to focus when you’re turning me into the artistic form of Carrie here!”

Good one, Evie! I’m so proud.

“She said it was Eve’s “curse”. Impure. Unclean,” I gasp. “She dragged me to her church, and the pastor and his wife told me the same.”

The paintbrush flicks my clit, and I whimper at the featherlight touch. It feels odd when he dips it inside my pussy and wiggles it around, coating the brush again.

Tears find my cheeks as I recall the degrading memories. But I lean into the sensation of Cal painting me, tracing the brush in sweeping lines that seem to swirl and follow the curves and contours of my body.

“They to-told me how my body could give birth now, and I had to be very careful not to invite any “attention” to myself. Oh, fuck!” I squeal when he swipes my clit back and forth with the brush.

You should see yourself! Like the Mona Lisa of menstruation.

I huff because she can’t see me if I can’t see me. It’s just my stupid subconscious trying to glorify this catastrophe.

Two fingers and the brush ease inside me with surprising tenderness. Next, he starts on my legs, letting me pause for a few moments.

My core tightens, and I breathe through another cramp. Cal paints me with speed and precision. All I know is it’s not random patterns. But I don’t dare open my eyes yet. Not when I’m feeling every drop of shame from this one fucked up part of my childhood.

“What else?” he asks, dots the paintbrush again with my blood, then swirls it around my toes.