I know your characters as though they’re my friends. I would recognize them on the street, if they weren’t only the product of your imagination. I would invite them home and I’d take them. Or let them take me.
My right hand is on the mouse, scrolling, resisting the urge to race down the screen. I keep my left on the keys, for now, to keep it out of trouble. I enjoy how your words begin to thicken me without even a touch of my hand. Only a half-dozen paragraphs deep and I’m swelling, on my way to a needy erection.
There’s no turning back now. If I’d wanted to behave, I’d not have started reading you in the first place.
I might stop mid-story and reread a passage that is especially good: a
description, perhaps, down to the texture of his skin or the veins
protruding on his shaft. I look down. A bead of opaque fluid has bubbled to
the tip of my cock. For the first time, I allow myself contact, in two ways:
with my thumb I smear the drop around my cockhead, spongy and darker in
color, and then I reach lower, cupping my balls, squeezing them gently. They
are floating in a creamy pool that your words soon will encourage out of my
sac.
Your story speeds on like a runaway train, and as it washes over me, my left
hand has fallen almost subconsciously into my lap. This relaxed fist finds
its target by instinct, and begins its slow, methodical work, from the base
to the tip, twisting lightly at the head before pushing back lower again. It
carries down the length more precome, which now is leaking more generously.
You might well have been experiencing all of this as you wrote. I imagine
that the fantasies you create stir you deeply too, and that your hands might
not have spent all their time on the keys. Thinking this turns up my heat.
Together, we’ve found the perfect pace: your words, my manipulation. I want
to come with your characters — with you — and if I know your style, I can
time this almost to the stroke.
I might be skipping a word or two now, my desperation growing. But your
characters are desperate, too. They are sucking or jerking or fucking, and
now they, and we, are so, so close.
I’m no longer reading your story, but I’m part of it. I’m leaning back from
the computer, looking to my lap. The sensation is unmistakable, isn’t it?
We’re thick in our hands, fat and bulging, breath short, every ounce of our
being channeled to our groins.
Time freezes for just the instant before the eruption, an I’m watching as
though I’m someone else. My hand stops for a heartbeat, just below the ridge
of my head, then plunges down to the base. It’s now, more than ever, that
I’m dying to have your hard cock in my mouth.
I never tire of the sight, of the first powerful spurt that shoots up and
hits me in the chest. It urges me on, and I paw at myself furiously,
grabbing hold of my balls, emptying themselves on my torso in hard spurts.
My come is pooling in my navel. It has painted my right nipple and is
drooling over my fist, lubricating my shaft and matting in my pubic hair in
thick globs.
I stroke more gently, out of necessity, my softening cock so sensitive now
that even the lightest touch is like an electric shock. My head slumps down
as I fight for my breath, my chin touching my chest. When I find the
strength to lift it, there is a thin sticky trail from my whiskers to my
sternum. I take my left hand and massage my come into my skin, listening to
the sound as it seeps into my pores.
I save this story to enjoy again, and before long I slink off to the shower,
considering that you have taken me to the edge of a fabulous cliff and
thrown me off.
And I wonder: Do any of my words have this effect on you?
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Copyright by Northern Light