I was his canvas, his muse, both helpless lying prostrate over the table and endlessly powerful because all that creative beauty was bound up in a gorgeous man who was bound up, somehow, in me.
He didn’t stop when my front was covered from breasts to toes, a poem written across my arch and tucked up under my heel. Instead, he stepped back, breathing heavy, almost panting and painfully aroused, his cock dipping into his belly button where precum pooled like ink.
But his arousal and my own, pooling between my thighs and staining the page beneath my bottom, smearing the ink with my wet, were inconsequential next to the raging authority of his muse.
He caught me by an ankle, locked pale eyes with my own, and then flipped. I spun with the momentum, levering myself onto my belly so that my back and ass were exposed to his pen.
A poem down my spine, verses caught on each vertebra, the rest branching out from my shoulder blades like wings formed by words. I felt divine, exalted by him, elevated by his worship and the ways he used words to pin down those elusive feelings that moved like midnight shadows over my soul.
By the time he crested the twin hills of my bottom, his verve had lessened, the strokes of the pen languid, almost tired as he wrung the last droplets of passion from his heart and spilled them across my flesh.
Abruptly, after an hour of feverish writing, he was done.
He slumped in the chair and let his forehead fall to my thighs, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. We waited there, in the wake of magic as it slowly waned, and when he moved again, I knew it wasn’t the muse that moved him, but the lust left in its stead.
He tugged my ankles again, shifting me across the pages until my knees hit his thighs and my ass was canted up over the side of the table, my core exposed to his burning gaze.
His nose went first, drawing a line from the crease of my cheek to the folds of my sex and then again on the other side. The same path followed with his thumb and then again with his tongue.
There was no haste, only slumberous, heavy desire that pulled us deeper like a net trolling the floor of the sea.
I gasped as he parted my wet folds with his tongue, as he sucked at my lips and swirled his tongue over my asshole. He stilled my quivering with both big palms on my cheeks, pulling me further apart for his delving tongue and industrious nose.
When I came, I didn’t groan or thrash. It felt like sliding into warm water as it rolled through me like a curling wave. I gasped and softly breathed his name.
It was his name that woke him up again, and he cleaned me with renewed urgency before flipping me back over. I slithered down from the table like spilled honey into his lap and braced my hands on his shoulders as he fitted me on top of his thick cock.
The ache of him sliding inside me felt so right, the edge of pain just enough to heighten the incredible current stemming from the connection.
I rode him softly, steadily. So slowly at first it was barely a movement, just a tilt of my hips under his hands, and then faster, rocking then crashing into the shore of his hips, my pussy leaving damp trails in the sandy hair over his groin.
And the whole time we watched each other, caught up in the visual tangle. I watched his pupils blow wide, obliterating the normally icy blue gone liquid with lust. How his lids grew heavy and his cheeks went flush as I churned faster and faster, wringing my own pleasure from him.
And just when I felt the crest of climax lapping at my hips, he crushed my breasts against his chest, a hand pressing me faster over his cock, the other wrapped around the back of my neck so he could haul me close and kiss me.
“She tastes like fresh brine,” he murmured against my lips as I moved faster and faster still. “Like sea water. I’ll ride her softly, rocking, like an incoming tide.” He paused to sink his teeth into my neck, and I broke apart, shaking and gasping over him, clutching his mouth to me with a hand on his neck and the other twined deep in his hair. I felt the kick of his cock inside me, then the hot spill of cum against the entrance to my womb, and I cried out finally at the intensity of our shared climax.
As I rode it out, he whispered the rest in my ear, “And even when she ebbs after the crest, I know she’ll flow back to me again.”