Love like Silk

She sits opposite you, binding in one hand, stylus in the other. One delicate leg crosses over the other in the sculpted beanbag as she takes you in for this concept drawing. Miss Duskwind plucked you from the street, and your day with a claim that she had seen you there and had to have you - to paint your unique and original visage with paint and passion. And so she has you stand there while she sketches out a pose.   Your vest hangs loose over your shoulders as you stand in a pose mid 'fight', holding a staff of some kind as her eyes sweep over you time and again, making you feel naked beneath her hungry gaze. She herself wears a long white dress in sakur-pate, clinging to her forest green skin, her brown eyes darting away from yours each time you try to catch her gaze. You stay still, even as you mimic movement, knowing to shift is to disappoint and you have not the heart to disappoint Miss Duskwind.   Sweat travels your throat in this small room, greshire canvas stretched across grown frames empty on every wall, and you notice the membrane drawn closed only a moment before your eyes are drawn back to the artist before you. The bottom of her ankle length dress is riding up her constantly shifting legs and you notice how shaved and shining those slowly exposed calves and soon knees appear, toes always pointed as they flex in her restless movement.   Eyes would drag up, noticing small white pebble buttons leading from navel to cleavage, held together by delicate loops that hide their strength. Your eyes catch hers this time and her lip curls in sudden fury. "You're moving. You'll ruin everything." Her speed is insane, catching one hand on your elbow and the other under your chin, as the squeezing there pushes her long, pointed, manicured nails lightly into your skin pricking you lightly until she draws blood. "You must mimic life and death at once if you are to be my muse and more that broken flesh for the masses."   She moves back to the beanbag, languid this time and you stay still even as the line of her back down to her sculpted ass fills your vision. The 5 scars from her shoulder blades down paint a story, their redness hidden by carefully applied paints that slightly stain into the delicate fabric clothing her form. You hold back a tremble as your muscles ache in stiffness, this new alteration forcing you from the natural resting stance of the body into this highly strung pose. And at last she makes her seat, watching you with disinterest as she returns to her sketch.   How much time will she make you stand there, as Debron starts to dip below the skyline, leaving the cool light of the first-night, a light pink hue dappling everything, including the artist taking you in. In your exhausting state you see her brown eyes as black and her tongue play over too-sharp teeth and you shiver in that dip into the forbidden thoughts. She must smell it on you, for she is standing, her eyes aglow with emotion as she moves to press herself to your side, dragging delicate lips over your straining throat, inhaling sweat and blood and fear on your skin and practically alive with the thought.   You feel something prick below your ribs and you look down, those delicate legs replaced with orange bird feet made huge, their claws brushing your own bare feet as a knife slides into your flesh. You don't know how she's hit nothing important, but you do - and you know it is because she has sliced many a muse before. She is laughing softly in your ear as she keeps pressed to you, nipping and biting your long, thin pointed ears, those many teeth dragging over the piercings that mark you in your work, in your play and your life and you wonder if you gave it all up for a pretty girl with a pretty smile.   With a flick of her wrist, your blood goes flying, working a red stain across the greshire that pulses like flesh as you stare at the join between blood and canvas. You shiver as you feel the slow seep of blood from your wound and she leaves your side, picking up a hair-made brush, painting the stain of you until it makes a crude arrangement of your form as you are.   You hear the click click of talons on floor more than you see her move, and she catches your chin again, sealing her mouth to yours in a tongue filled kiss that sweeps and devours what is left within you, pushing aside resistance as she plunges the knife back into your body, working her paint from your body, even as her attacks leave you alive as long as possible to gift your muse-essence to the creative process. You feel weaker with each cut made into you, and eventually you fall, looking up at the blackness of the silhouette of her, the artist lost in the art of it, wings tucked as she moves from foot to foot as she tries to capture the fleeting memory of you.   You are one more muse of the Lady in White. Or at least you were.