Her writing has had a profound impact on my pleasure. Almost everyday I look for a new creation from her. I know most days there won't be one but I harden with anticipation anyway. I read her older stories and search for the pieces that might reveal her. She has told me they are real so I must wonder if she is a part of them. She has become my sexual muse.
She has taken me along so perfectly. Her stories are like prose. She elicits a special response as I read along stroking myself. It is so much smoother and lubricating than usual. And the stiffness of my cock is like never experienced before. It is fatter and longer; stone hard. It pulses with life, the head literally swelling and contracting as I read. The large veins are obvious of course but I can see the small ones bursting from below the surface as well. It is as if I have a cock ring on but I don't. It is the power of her craft, her spell.
Many days when I awaken in the morning, I recall a segment or phrase from her creations. I get hard in bed and start squeezing myself slowly; wondering about her. Her writing has taken me to another place, no longer responding to the writer but to the woman. God, she's so passionate! What does she look like, smell like, taste like? I want to know! She tells me she is happy that I cum hard from her writing but would she like my cum? Would she like to feel it in her hands, in her mouth, on her breasts, dripping in her pussy or elsewhere? Maybe she would! I think about it and I wonder. I wonder if I should feel guilty about such cyber-lust. Am I twisted in some way because I now think about her instead of her writing. I think not. I have no idea what she looks like but I want her to fuck me! Yes, take me and fuck me any way she wants.
If we ever met would she want to fuck me? Maybe!
Maybe we would meet but agree in advance to pretend as though we had never spoken. It would be in the bar of a 5 star hotel and we would get comfortable with one another over wine. Maybe it wouldn't feel right to one of us and we would separate before exploring further. Maybe she would be wearing a slim fitting dress, her breasts dying to be liberated from beneath. Her legs would slide between the slit up the side. "Are you alone?", she would ask. I would simply smile and gesture for her to take the seat; my cock growing under the table. She would seat herself with legs crossed one over the other, her lips perfectly addressing the wine in her glass. She might start gently moving her leg up and down to the benefit of her steamy V, while I dreamed of parting her sweet womanhood with my tongue. In the midst of polite conversation her hand would disappear below the table then return with two dripping fingers. Without any hesitation in the flow of our discourse she would smoothly and efficiently rub her juice around the rim of my glass. Staring into her eyes, cock pounding, I would take the glass and lick her from the rim; hoping so much to get it all before it dried. "How's that vintage?" she would ask.
"Exquisite indeed! Wouldn't you agree?"
"The absolute finest!"
