You didn't know it as you read, but there was something...
Extra,
in those lines. Something hiding - where? Behind the text itself? In the background image? Was it floating over the site as you read, or could it not really be there at all? You couldn't tell. You had lost track of time hours ago. How many stories had this been now? This was your first one - right? Surely you had only clicked onto the one story... And yet the darkness outside the window made you wonder, and the burning tension between your aching thighs begged to differ. You knew one story couldn't have gotten you so worked up, knew that one simple page of text hadn't had
that
effect on you, and yet here you were, soaking through the inside layers of your clothing and yearning for release.
You read on, this new story once again something different and enthralling. The character within seemed somewhat relatable, and you enjoyed the way the author had positioned the story around the core theme of sexual gratification. You found you especially enjoyed the suggestibility of the events, noting with keen interest the way the characters inevitably succumbed to external control without really being able to resist, no matter how much they fortified themselves or how long they escaped that power for. As you read on, you noted how each one of the author's characters were rewarded for their obedience, pleasured either by each other or by the sheer act of submission, as if the author themselves were ensuring that all who existed within their purview received what they had come here to get. Your crotch begged for your hand's sweet embrace as you read on, your eyes fixated on the next word as you devoured the narrative, but you knew you should not touch yet - not until you finished this last story.
As you read, you grew needier, more heated. The fire between your thighs built, crackling and tingling, growing only more intense as the pleasure on your screen built. When characters in the story reached pleasurable peaks, you shared those sensations, tiny thrills of bliss rippling through your own body as if you were a part of that very tale. When they fell into submission, complying with orders or trying and inevitably failing to resist control, you felt their plight, almost as if it were your own - their mental struggle, the overpowering weight of the trance descending upon their brain, their final feeble struggle as pleasure and control forced their consciousness down into murky nothingness until it drowned forever, leaving the character a horny, needy husk unable to move or think without more commands to obey. When at last their tale concluded, you felt their happiness, their contented, aroused lifestyle somehow satisfying, as if you wished for the very same to happen to you.
You did not know what it was that did it; never found the original source of the trance. Perhaps it had been in the text, or perhaps it had been a video overlayed above the site - or perhaps, just maybe, there had been nothing there at all, and it had simply been you all along, discovering a destiny you had not known for yourself until reading those stories, until at last you realized it, and from that moment onwards could do nothing to resist it. Whatever it had been, it didn't matter now; here you were, reading one last story before you finally-you had resolved in your mind-closed down the page and got off.
The story was short, less than a page, only a few paragraphs. It was a little different from the others, in that this one seemed not quite to describe anything; instead, it focused on the story of a helpless, needy pet sitting behind their screen, staring into it as the words of the story scrolled slowly by, flickering in their eyes as they drank in every word. You did not care; if it was short, it would mean your teasing would end soon. You would finally be able to stand up, stretch your legs, and perhaps see to that needy, desperate burn begging for your attention between your legs.
You read on. The paragraphs began to shorten, and you knew the end was close. You only had to read a few more words and then you would finally be released, free to touch and rub and finish that overdue orgasm you so desperately needed. You knew, somehow, that by the end of this story, for better or worse, you were going to cum.
The final paragraph was just off screen. You knew this was it. Reading on, you felt the surge as arousal built to a tremulous peak, only one word away from tipping into blissful release. You felt yourself tensing up, clenching and unclenching as your muscles imitated the acts of pleasure that would bring you to this point. You were throbbing, your heart pumping through your whole body, most intense between your legs, right at your most sensitive point. You read desperately on, knowing beyond anything else that you needed this release. You were hooked on the words, enthralled by them - they guided your arousal, built you up and kept you there, teasing you and testing you, seeing if you could last until the end. They carried a special reward for you if you had managed to do so, you knew - and here you were, at long last, near the end of the story. You yearned for release, nothing else in your mind now but the orgasm that was seconds away from flooding your body.
You knew that you had obeyed the author. Knew that you had succumbed to their control. Their words had seeped into your mind and rooted there, like trees in a forest, and now your mind was infected with their life. It wasn't a bad feeling; it was soft and warm, like welcome company. It brought you pleasure, and the freedom not to have to think for a while. You knew that you could come here to lose yourself, to experience nothing but bliss at their fingertips, their words working you up until you finally let go completely, succumbing to a blissful, overpowering orgasm. You were the author's good reader, obedient till the end. You read every word, followed every command as if it were your own. You felt their characters' feelings, experienced their pleasure and followed them as they fell to their Master's control. You knew you had done the same, and you were glad; because you knew that the Author, like their Master, wanted only to give them pleasure. You knew that they only wrote to please, and you wanted to be pleased. Your Author - their Master - you knew them know as the same thing. Interchangeable. The Author was your Master.
You've been so good for me.
This time, the words seemed almost to address you directly.
