My pulse quickened as I scrolled, each spin of the mouse wheel bringing more heady, sweat-filled scenes. All of the details I had provided him were rendered in the story, twisted by his words into obscene eroticisms. My cock was pulsing painfully against my trousers, pressed harshly between the meat of my upper thigh and the rough denim. It had stiffened with blood as soon as I had seen the story title, but our pledge forbade me from masturbating to the story for the first 24 hours. I didn’t then know exactly where the Writer was based, but I guessed nowhere close… the car reg he had forgotten to blur in one of his photos suggested Europe. Even knowing he was probably half a world away, I was still strangely afraid that he would know if I even adjusted my package. All I allowed myself was a slight rocking on my chair, rubbing my hardness backwards and forward against the denim as I read about the depraved pleasures inflicted upon my fictionalised body.
I was half way through the story, a dribble of precum leaching into my jeans, when I noticed something that drained the colour from my face. I had been reading so fast that i initially hadn’t noticed it, but when i skipped back a few lines it was right there…