I awoke during the night to the soft sounds of my big brother and Master typing resolutely at his laptop. Certainly, it was unusual for him to be working at his laptop so late at night, especially given that this was still summer vacation. From the body language, he was quite intent on whatever it was that he was doing, and if he heard me roll over in his bed, he did not visibly react.
Through my half-open eyelids, I watched my Master for a few moments. He was the embodiment of work, typing with the intensity and the desire of a professional concert pianist, each hand moving with a purpose, each finger performing its intended duty with both precision and grace. Even in those few times when he needed to backspace to remedy a typing error, the movement was fluid, the sound lyrical.
As my eyes began to close at last and I drew the covers tightly around my naked form, my mind began to drift, wander, dream, fantasize...
I was the laptop, my keys repeatedly and rapidly struck in a semi-rhythmic manner which was both jolting and massaging. My many keys each bore the unique fingerprints of the ten tantalizing instruments of my painful pleasure. Each teasing touch caused me to gasp in soft, sharp, staccato tones while displaying my myriad reactions upon my glorious screen. As time passed and he continued on and on and on with his important work, I was joltingly massaged faster and faster and faster, harder and harder and harder, my staccato gasps sounding louder and louder and louder in the darkened bedroom. One stroke at a time, one strike at a time, my vast memory filled slowly, cataloguing every minute detail of every wonderful sensation, retaining it all and filing it away to relive at some point in the future. I did not know or even care about why; I simply accepted the intricate attentions of the one person who possessed me, used me, owned me.
