Dicknotism

It’s your first night off in a while when you run into an enchanting stranger who ends up changing your life for good.

It’s the first time you’re out at night in a while. You’ve almost forgotten how good the crisp air feels after sunset. Work has been busy, the workload just shy of unreasonable. The big hullabaloo seems over now, and you have more than a few minutes to take a step back and breathe.

There’s a part of you that thinks the evening will be better spent staying at home curled up with a good book and a mug of hot tea, but another part of you, starved of casual human contact, won’t let the matter of a night on the town go. You suppose it can’t hurt, so you go along with it.

The night life around these parts isn’t particularly exciting, but that’s alright. You don’t want it to be. Most days, you’re a bit of a shut-in, so the lack of drama is just what you need to feel comfortable.

Your wandering inevitably leads you to a small gay bar in the neighborhood. You’ve been here a few times, but you doubt anyone on staff remembers you. You tend to keep a pretty low profile and don’t end up visiting more than once every few months.

You sit at the bar and order your usual. Nothing particularly strong. You like to keep your wits about you. You were blackout drunk once, during college, and hated the way you felt the morning after. More than that, you hated not remembering anything about the night before. It made you all sorts of unnecessarily anxious.

You’re more than happy to sit by your lonesome at the bar, listening to the conversations taking place around you, taking in the sights of the hot men in their convoluted mating dances. You’re not really here for action. You just like to watch people, sometimes.

That said, you’re not entirely unprepared when a man comes up to you at the bar. He asks if you’d let him buy you a drink. Not only do you not want to be rude, you also find him quite attractive so you indulge him.

He’s a very flirtatious and charming man. The way that his lips quirk when his smiles, the way that his eyes light up when he laughs at some stupid story about the literal worst customers you’d ever had the displeasure to serve, makes your heart beat just a little faster in your chest.

When he talks, his silky smooth baritone voice is captivating. You can’t help but stare when he brings his glass of whisky to his lips. IT takes every ounce of willpower in you not to lick your lips as you watch his part on the lip of the glass.

He’s quiet, for a moment. He savors the whiskey as he sets the glass down on the counter. Your eyes follow it, tracing the path of the beads of moisture that drip down the sides of the glass. When he speaks, your attention is drawn back to him, as if the mere sound of his voice could command your focus with ease.

Every now and again he pauses. Inevitably, you look at his glass, your attention drawn there by the sound of ice being swirled around on the inside, or the drumming of his fingers on the countertop beside it. It’s as if your attention is caught in the space between him and his glass, unable to escape. Not that you mind, particularly.

When you try to think of what he’s said, to engage with his words, you find that you can’t quite remember anything he’s spoken about. Perhaps on any other day you would have been more alarmed but between the drinks you’ve had, the pleasant buzz in your head, and the smooth timbre of his voice, you slowly lose the will to talk at all. The only thing you want to do is listen to him speak.

Time passes like a blur of perception. One moment you’re at the bar, and the next you’re at his place. What’s in between is near-impossible to decipher. It was as if the memories had all blended together into one undecipherable mess. It makes sense that you’ve gone home with him, though. From the moment your eyes met, you’ve been enamored.

He sits you down on the couch. You’re hard and leaking through your pants. There’s a dark wet spot on the inside of your thigh, and it only grows every time he touches you. A low moan escapes your partly-open lips as he brushes his thumb across your cheekbone.

He stands in front of you and hooks his fingers into the waistband of his jeans. He shimmies them down past his ass. You lick your lips as his underwear catches on his hard shaft, a strange warmth pooling in your stomach as the garter strains against it until at last, it springs free with a wet thwap against his rock-hard stomach.

Fingers tangle through your hair, making you shiver. Goosebumps pop up along your arms. You look up, instantly your gaze instantly trapped in his beguiling bright-red eyes, falling into the bottomless abyss that laid behind them.

Some part of you, still interested in self-preservation, fights at first. It is a losing battle. Your consciousness frays at the edges. As you gaze up at him, you feel memories and thoughts slowly fading away from your mind, running through your fingers like water through a sieve.

His crimson eyes release you from their thrall and your head falls forward as your eyes lock onto his magnificent cock, long, hard, and leaking right in front of your face. It twitches when your hot breath from your slack-jawed gaping wafts across it, and releases a single glistening pearl of pre-cum that rolls down the underside.

Thoughts of servitude and submission whisper across your fading mind. The part of you that recognizes the danger fights, but is overcome. You suck in drool that has been dribbling from the corner of your mouth as your lips tighten into a small smile.

Everything that you once were has slowly been stripped away. Of your memories, only dregs remain. Of your personality, only the faintest glimmer. Everything else is helplessly devoted to the man in front of you, to the cock bobbing gently up and down before your face.

Even the core of your being is not safe. A fog descends over your mind, your thoughts slowing to a crawl and then grinding to a halt as your very essence, your will, your soul fades away from you. The only thought that makes sense, the only thought you are allowed, is about how much you would love to serve him.

You are a puppet, a thrall for his desires. Pleasure courses through you at this new understanding of your role. With his cock hovering tantalizingly close over your lips, you cum the most intense orgasm of your life, permanently expelling your old self out of your body and mind.

As the last of your seed trickles out of your soft cock, the chains tighten around you. You belong to him now, mind, body, and soul. You think only what he thinks. You desire only what he desires. You do only what he wills you do.

As he pushes your head down onto his cock, you open your mouth and swallow it like an obedient doll. You would feel satisfaction, if you could. But you are nothing more now than an object, a toy for him to use as he pleases.

It isn’t satisfaction that you feel as he impales your face over and over again onto his cock. It is not your place to feel satisfaction. Instead, you feel complete. You feel as if you are fulfilling your purpose, and that is a good thing, because from now on, that is all that you exist for.

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