I am Nick's pencil.

I am but one of many, but today I am the chosen one.

I am plain, nondescript, yet in his hands I soar. He holds me as a lover would hold his mistress, firmly, with purpose.

With bold strokes, he touches me to paper committing his thoughts to eternal archive.

He is on fire; his emotions spill forth with a vengeance and it is I -- *I* who have the pleasure of being his help-mate.

He is moody, sometimes, when the words won't come. Pondering the void of creativity, he takes me between his lips. Oh sweet heaven ... the warmth of his breath moistens me as I quiver against his flesh.

An idea springs forth and I feel him smile against me, the corners of his lips turning upward in pleasure. Pleasure? He has no idea of the true meaning of pleasure.

Pleasure is what I feel as his thumb strokes me. Pleasure is the miniscule pain of his teeth nipping my sides and the healing brush of his tongue against me.

Pleasure is knowing that without me, his thoughts might never be shared with the world.

Pleasure?

Pleasure is being Nick's pencil.

10-19-00