Stirred By Your Words By Northern Light northernlight1@hotmail.com
It didn't take me long to discover a few favorite authors at Nifty. I've come to set my alarm an hour earlier most mornings to give myself time to surf the site, hoping to find a new chapter or a fresh story to enjoy.
Many of us here live on the feedback we receive, and I'm guilty, as many of us are, for not responding often enough, to let you know how you have stirred me to the core. Many of you begin tremendous stories, then fall off the map for months, or longer. Your lives have taken you different directions, for better or for worse. Either way, it's a shame for those of us who are nourished by your words, and deprived when they no longer arrive.
Sometimes, it's your title that will catch my eye. Sometimes, the category. But just when I think I have my fantasies all figured out, one of you will surprise me with a sensational story, setting the mood, describing the scene and letting the white-hot action take me from casual reading to a frantic need that I seldom will deny.
Take this morning. Another workday, more than enough to occupy my thoughts. But I had time for a look here before breakfast and my shower, and I settled naked before my screen with a mug of coffee and a curious premonition.
And there you were. A new chapter.
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?