Never before had a singular, solitary word ever been loaded with such significance. Its pulse in and out of opacity was small in comparison to the fearful rhythm of my heart. The butterflies in my stomach began to hunt as if they hadn’t eaten in years, because they hadn’t. The word in question was not a stranger to me. It hid the secrets of infinity for it was the precursor to man’s greatest blessing: that being, ironically, more words.
“Typing…”
Those few pixels were my gospel, my monitor was my pearly gates. If a world existed in which these short two syllables, in this moment did not exist, there would simply be no point in living. Like most conflicts, from the woes that shook Shakespeare to grind iambic pentameter to war with death tolls unknown, this devotion to such a blessing was the fault of man’s greatest inheritance, a proclivity for other human beings. I found myself in the state of utter adoration that poets and writers and actors would spew to a paying crowd. Notions of close warmth and intense intimacy that I would roll my eyes at now seemed to live at the forefront of my conscience. It was as if this person had unlocked the weight clinging to my core and cured me of the chains that composed my veins. I observed myself taking up less space in my bed at night, cuddled up in an ocean of fabric, almost as if it had always been built for two. Rather than fantasies of flight or adventure I instead dreamed of wet lips not inches from electric contact, bodies so close together that the flesh would appear as one and a nose rubbing playfully against my own under a low, muted light.
These shadowy thoughts of mine grew and grew. A tsunami of repressed delight came and soaked my inhibitions one particular winter evening. I tried to make it slow and subtle, something that could easily be deflected and passed off as satirical in nature. My fingers nervously danced on the keyboard as “boyfriend” appeared in a tangible, semantically valid form on my territory of the chat, eager to battle. Enter. It was at that moment that this reticent word appeared on my screen.
“Typing…”
For a brief moment in time, reality was pocketed by the cruellest angels of purgatory. They sat on their clouds looking down on me, giggling at the torture they had caused me to endure. Soon, time began to move again and a message dispassionately popped up juxtaposing the upbeat sound effect that accompanied it. As the reply oozed onto the deepest canyons of my mind, my mind oozed in sympathy. It wasn’t an outright rejection but it invited enough interpretation to summon a deep, deep sense of penitence within me. At that moment, it was as if someone had infiltrated the newly refurbished sanctity of my heart and stripped it naked for the world to laugh at.
I stood up, my spoiled heart sagging and pushing oppressively on my lungs. The pain forced me back to submission into the chair. An aching fizz lay restless within me, it slithered up and down my torso and eventually found solace in my groyne. It created a warmth that was a confusing blend of both comfort and irritability. My hands moved on their own, they claimed the mouse that sat on my desk and my disorderly mind was reassembled in the shallow excitement of an incognito tab. My free hand, now itching with impatience, impishly breached the waistband of my underwear and took hold of my member.
The next however many minutes were a blur, my body was working autonomously. Pornhub, xvideos, reddit. They all replaced the chat that had brought me peace not an hour before. I wanted to see control, I wanted to see order, I wanted familiarity. My hand, trapped under the veil of cheap underwear, was now hard at work. My fingers pushed my foreskin to move in ways never done before, every single nerve brought me ecstasy. I soon pulled the fabric aside to allow my now increasingly engorging phallus the space to breathe. Nothing was off the table: the biggest of men owning and breaking the most delicate feminine flowers, dominatrixes reducing their prey to tears, rape hentai from the darkest depths of internet. That fizz that conquered me before now brought me intense stimulation. My penis quickly began to leak a clear substance, it ran its way into my fingers as I continued to relentlessly stroke my wood. I started to have to monitor my moans, sounds of pure erotic bliss fought their way up my airways, I filtered them into stuttering breaths of a kind of sweet denial.
My face went a romantic shade of pink as my body reached its limits and expressed its anger in the form of erratic hip gyrations. The pearls inside my scrotum danced as they swelled, pulsing just like my heart had done before. I felt my body ready to burst but refused to let my dick rest. Soon enough, the sweet glow of an orgasm grew inside my body. Like a shower in the fountain of eternal youth, my heart, mind and soul felt rejuvenated. Rope after rope of sour seed erupted my body, I gripped my thigh hard, stopping myself from practically leaping out of my chair. The desk, now lathered in my essence, was the only thing that welcomed me back to reality as I calmed down. I revealed in the cleanliness that the moment brought me and hugged myself as best I could before the void would inevitably return.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/118mk5o/filling_the_void_18m_solo