The tempo, erotic moans of DJ’s CD, and the lingering sweetness of a long sip of the Irish creamer encouraged me on my journey. Having read each of her stories, spending many hours allowing each to simmer within my mind, I realized now, they were no longer stories. They were like a Greek theatric performance of the intertwining ingredients of mortal life here on this planet. The immense excitement she shared of her discovery with the delights of sexuality, her anticipation for more, then more, and more of the pleasures of human touch. I heard my breaths escape the passivity of patience as she skillfully portrayed innocence with her first blowjob.

Becoming more rigid, I now was compelled to slowly slide my fingers upon the silk robe covering my swelling cock. Leaning back in my chair, holding the story upward with my right hand, I realized I was no longer lingering through the words. Now, I was skimming through them, seeking not just the excitement of her experienced pleasures retold, but I longed for feeling, reliving, and passionately experiencing both her and her lover’s emotions. Each word, each sentence, each paragraph brought me closer to a peak of satisfaction, yet each time I fought back, holding it at bay, even though I would surrender to my hand, which engulfed the thickness of my rampant desire to consume my new, young, cyber lover.

By the third story, she had stepped into dimly lit passages of the conflict of pain experienced as pleasure. I wondered if she had known pleasure as pain like that which was encompassing my very being now. The contrast of my anguish to achieve a spasmodic climax battled relentlessly with my desire to encounter the sensuality of her erotic essence, now alive in her flowing, vivacious words. Although each of her characters bore a different name, for me they were of one existence in my mind – they are only the reflection of my craving to be consumed by her and to seize the station as her ardent lover, her confidential tutor of pleasure, and her passionate ally of the sanctions and offerings of the mysticism of my former order. However, I know from my past lives, caution to these truths was paramount on elevating our path, seeking to reach even beyond the gifts of Eros, Aphrodite, and Himerus.

But, alas, my hand seemed to become haunted with a mind of its own, fervently finding its pace along my engorged thickness, tall with its height painted by the mysticism of amethyst. Its sacral position was prompted more by the power of a large, luminous, carnelian crystal watched carefully by the eyes of a multitude of tigers. Lust filled my heart, fueled by her last story. Her bewitching power appeared upon my presence, causing even the comfort of my aged belly to intensely quiver until tightening like that of Adonis. Each quick, yet powerful stroke spoke silent words to my left leg, causing an arduous tempo as it danced rhythmically. Reaching toward the wall, my right foot magically levitated as I lifted the story higher, and higher and higher, as my head fell deeper into the softness of the wide leather chair.

Within my mind seemed confusion and