He lowered himself into the comfort of his beloved, aging swivel chair, slowly edging it from side to side, a delicate squeak emitting from far below, deep within its decrepit, metal skeleton. Time had, as it was to me, been sympathetic to the great chair; skin illustrating how it had been loved, showing deep creases in the once rich green leather, emphasized by scars and small wrinkles. He often did this, one hand would be nursing a tumbler of whisky, and the other stroked my lean body, caressing me with his rough hands, feeling each and every one of the finely carved crevasses that adorned me. With dark amber eyes, that hid showed him wise before his years, framed by wrinkles rivalling those of the chair's, he looked deep into the crackling fire in the stone- wall the opposite side of the room to his, also old, oak desk, searching. I waited with baited breath. Was he just going to lay me back and strap me down on my velvet bed between my scarlet sheets or, as if hit by genius herself, would he cease massaging me, turn me vertically, and, oh so delicately slowly press my nib into the virgin white paper? I could feel the ebony black ink flooding the hole before gushing forth between my carved, metallic thighs as I was driven along to form his emotions. This was ecstasy for me. I was needed. He was fulfilling my purpose, I was becoming a portal, a device to illustrate his inner most thoughts and feelings. With each long, meaningful word I scribed for this man I became more and more enthralled, his strong, masterful grip around my waste moved southwards, down towards my curvaceous hips, thus allowing him to control me better, faster, with more vigour. His face did little to mask the emotions that he was forging with me, although his hand was erratic and his face stern, his lexis was everything but. He was writing to a forbidden lover. With the bond I held with this beautiful specimen I could almost taste the forbidden passion that this man was expressing through me. I caressed his passionate verses. I stroked each and every word. I felt empowered and strong, captivated with his slow employment of my faculties, I was slowly, ever so slowly succumbing to his hypnotic form. He was my master, and expert in my affairs, as I now was in his, he could feel my secrets and I could his. A steady flow of words still spouted from within me powered with his influence. It had been so long since I had been used this way, fast, sincere, recklessly, since I had felt so alive, but now? I felt empowered, he was charming me, I imagined we were in timeless, spicy Morocco a place that writhes all the senses, he was playing to me and I was a snake, rising up, captivated by his song. I felt like I could write an anthology. I was alive. This man had woken me, I was no longer a dormant item shackled, forgotten in a draw. He was making me work. I could feel each part of my mechanics operating in unison, me working with him, him working me. I was entranced, devoted to the touch of him, understanding the angst and desperation in his word as a he began to lose his rhythmic grasp and scrawl even faster and faster, ever more frantic, his writing was an epiphany of romantic genius. He was a real man, and making me understand my purpose in his company. Abruptly I started to feel weak, a rush of faintness hit me, I felt drained, used up, hollow. He stilled his hand and gently laid me on the scarred desk. Reaching, he leaned over me, he picked up a small bottle, as my body was stripped of his shadow - yes, this is what I desired, my life blood, my essence, our liquid connection. He quickly unscrewed the cap and dismissively tossed it away to one side. Then his focus came back to me, smoothly, he lifted me up and gently unwound my barrel, the fire light illuminating my undisclosed secret, laying me open to him, him seeing all of me. He picked me up from my core and positioned me over the open neck and, gently clasping, lowered me, my nib touching the blackest liquid and cutting down into it. I was rejuvenating. He held me there; still. He released me, the liquid rushed up, filling me, engorging me, just long enough to satisfying me. He gently lifted me out of the pool and wound me back into my barrel, then dabbed away the excess fluid from around my nib with caressing fingers, taking all the time in the world and me enjoying every second of the intimacy, knowing that my pleasure was going to end shortly. I was replete ready again. All of my being relaxed. He placed me reverently into my place of rest, sliding me into my restraint, covering me gently with delicate cloth. I did not mind though, I knew there would be another time soon; I was his, always his, to him, my age was no issue, and to him I was the only woman to see his soul. Taste his soul, feel his soul surround me.