by D. J. Herda
I clicked back on the name. I liked it. It had a nice, masterful, yet benevolent ring to it. David Lord Lionheart. I wondered if he actually were descended from royalty.
Ridiculous! I watched as his image came up—a man in his early Fifties, perhaps younger—very distinguished looking, with dark hair graying at the temples and salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed (of course!), blue-green eyes, a nice complexion, chiseled features. He was sitting in a chair, a pipe resting easily between two firm lips, dressed in a blue blazer, holding a riding crop on his lap and smiling faintly … the kind of smile that told you there was more to the picture than met the eye.
I clicked on a second photo, and another image unfolded—this one charged with the allure of promised sex. It showed a man from his neck to his knees, wearing only a gauze-thin smoking jacket that did little to disguise the excitement raging within him.
"He is fucking enormous..." I felt myself, felt between my thighs, felt the dampness I found there. Within seconds, I was wet, flushed with the desires of my own sex. Slowly, carefully, I felt the hand in the photo move out from the screen, stretch across to me, slide down between my own thighs. I felt the hand stir, felt my own growing torment. It paused to nibble lightly at my labia—up one side, down the other—before retracing its path. It slipped down suddenly between my lips, then reached up to toy with the button of love I had only recently learned to play. Encircling it, flicking at it, pressing down on it ... hard.
Oh, my God.
I struggled to pull myself upright.
If a picture can have that effect, what could the real man do?
I pushed the thoughts from my mind and began working on creating my own Erotic Profile. It took me the better part of an hour, but when I had finally completed answering all of the questions, I clicked on “Submit” (how appropriate, I thought), and the form went racing off to Alternative Partners. I slid back behind my keyboard, squirmed restlessly in my chair, and slowly began to scratch out my letter.
I held my breath as I moved to hit the “Send” key, and then I stopped. What if this were all one big mistake? What if I were about to embark upon something I simply couldn’t handle, take on responsibilities I honestly couldn’t meet? At the very least, I would walk away with my tail between my legs, looking like a perfect fool. At the worst ... I trembled to think.
But I knew my feelings. I understood perfectly well the desires that raged within me, the eternal furnace, the Hades of my soul. Wherever they might lead me, whatever I had to do to quench this feeling, I could no longer ignore them. The urge to action, the swell of anxiety within me, the pain in my heart—I had gone without acknowledging it for far too long. No, nothing could be worse than doing nothing. Not when it came to who I was, to what I needed, to where I had to go.
I sat back in my office chair and instinctively reached for that spot again. Somewhere along the line I had become wet once more…I don’t know when. I hadn’t felt it coming, not this time. I hadn’t felt stimulated at all, except perhaps of the heart. Yet my cunt was burning so wildly that, without another moment’s hesitation, I opened my bottom desk drawer—the one that I usually keep locked—and removed my favorite carry-on device and, pulling my shorts to one side, looked down at the neatly trimmed fur ringing my cunt lips.
Ummmm. I touched the tip of the vibrator against my pussy, which parted on its own as if by magic. “Ohhhh,” I groaned out loud. I slipped the head of the tool inside of me, only an inch or two, and paused.
I looked at the letter I had drafted on my computer screen, shoved the vibrator as far into my cunt as it would reach, and clicked on the “Send” icon. While I waited for confirmation, I turned the vibrator on and let out a sudden moan. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Fantasizing… masturbating…over someone I’d never even met, someone who didn’t know I existed. I felt wicked. I felt embarrassed. Then, as the simple computer-generated note popped up, I felt relieved. I read it out loud: “Your e-mail message to David Lord Lionheart has been sent.” I spread my legs wider.
“Too late to turn back now,” I breathed out huskily. And it was. All I could do now was sit back and wait…and, of course, pray. And pray I did, right then and there.
“Oh, God, yes,” I moaned, lying back in my chair and separating my pussy lips with one hand while massaging my swollen clit with the other. I looked at the image reflecting off the glass covering of a photograph on my office wall. The woman in the reflection looked back at me, her mouth wide open, her cunt exposed shamelessly, the very image of wanton depravity. “Oh, God, yes, take me, my Lord David. I want to be yours forever. I want to give myself to you freely. I want you to own me. I want to be your slut.”
I closed my eyes as I felt the very first shudder tremble deep inside of me. I closed my eyes and removed the vibrator from my cunt and pushed its head hard up against my clit. I felt another shudder, and another, larger, stronger. And suddenly I heard my Master telling me to come, granting me permission to accept my approaching orgasm, and I felt David Lord Lionheart at my side, felt his gentle hand on my head, felt his long, thick, pulsating cock pressing demandingly against my face.
“Oh, yes, my Lord,” I shouted suddenly. “Oh, yes. Your fucking slut is going to cum!”
NOTE: All material is copyright protected. No portion of this material may be copied or reproduced, either electronically, mechanically, or by any other means, for resale or distribution without the written consent of the author. All copy has been dated and registered with the American Society of Authors and Writers. Copyright 2007 by The Swetky Agency