tigersaint

the sixteenth night:

he sits at his writing desk with a glass of scotch and a fever in his head. he is writing the pages furiously while i sit next to him on the floor, a saucer next to me. he has filled it with my favorite whiskey.

every so often he absent-mindedly strokes my hair or slides his finger into my mouth to play with me. i get up on my knees and he slips his hand down over my breasts to pull and pinch my nipples, to make sure i am always aroused for him. when he is debating on words, he writes them on my mouth or my throat or my shoulder or my chest, to weigh the shape and color of them better before he commits them to paper. he says it's easier for him to decide when he can see them proper.

the pages fall as soon as he finishes with them and i lay them across the floor behind him, until the floor is a sea of words. every few hours he has me crawl on my hands and knees across the floor, reading to him as i do. sometimes he has me stop and reread passages over and over again. sometimes he has me whisper them, sometimes he asks me to touch myself while i read, to hear my voice catch over certain words. he smiles as i pant for him; he says, "again" as he watches me strain, telling me each line is a love letter,

he walks across the pages to caress my cheek or drag his fingers down my back, to give me support or hold my head still when i lose myself to his words and my touch. at certain points he crouches over me, i can feel him against me, i push back and grind him, his clothes against my nakedness driving me mad.

when i reach the end, i am at his feet, covered in ink, knees and palms black with words, words covering nearly every part of me, parts that i cannot see.

when i kiss the tops of his feet i see the word he wrote across my mouth:

"mine".