Seminal Inspiration

The cursor blinked on the white screen, like a digital heart beating to the rhythm of my desire. Going commando under my jeans, I felt every fiber of the rough fabric against my sensitive flesh. The excitement was building, as inevitable as inspiration itself. Words were coming like drops of pre-cum: slowly at first, then more and more abundantly.

Each creative pulse was accompanied by a twitch of my cock, as if my body and mind were dancing a sensual tango. I surrendered to this sweet torture, this exquisite tension between the urge to write and the desire to touch myself. My wet glans drew a dark spot on the denim, mapping my growing desire.

The musky scent of my arousal reached my nostrils, the pure fragrance of masculine inspiration. Sentences were forming in my mind like caresses:

‘Male desire is an underground river waiting to surge forth…’

My cock throbbed in approval.

‘Each drop of seminal fluid contains a universe of possibilities…’

A shiver ran down my spine. I slid my hand over my jeans, feeling the heat of my member through the fabric. Writing had become a sensual act, each typed word equivalent to a brush against my swollen glans. The boundaries were blurring: was I writing about desire or desiring the writing?

With trembling fingers hovering above the keyboard, I let my other hand trace the outline of my sex through my jeans. The wetness had spread, creating a constellation of desire on the dark fabric. Each word appearing on the screen was like an additional caress:

‘Male desire is a wild beast that feeds on anticipation…’ A moan escaped my lips.

My glans was throbbing against my palm, demanding more attention. But no, not yet. The art of erotic writing, like the art of love, requires patience, restraint…

‘Between men, desire is a silent dialogue of gazes and tensions…’ I stood up, my jeans deliciously uncomfortable over my swollen member.

In my office mirror, I observed the spreading dark stain. There was something profoundly erotic about this vision: the visible evidence of my arousal, the physical manifestation of my creativity.

‘The male body speaks its own language, a language of sweat and sap…’ My hips involuntarily undulated, rubbing my sex against the rough fabric.

The computer waited, a patient witness to my rising desire. I sat back down, but this time, I unbuttoned my jeans. The partial release sent an electric shock through my entire body.

‘Each drop of liquid that pearls is a promise of pleasures to come…’

My cock now stood proudly, free from all constraints, its head glistening like a ripe plum. I watched, fascinated, as a new pearl of liquid formed at the tip of my glans. It caught the screen’s light, prismatic, precious.

‘Man is a temple of flesh whose holy of holies weeps tears of pleasure…’

With a light finger, I collected this drop of inspiration. Brought it to my lips. The sweet-salty taste of my own desire exploded on my tongue. My cock twitched in response, immediately offering a new pearl of nectar.

‘The taste of male desire is a pagan prayer on the tongue…’ Words now flowed as freely as my pre-cum.

Each sentence was a caress, each paragraph a promise of pleasure. My body and mind were merging in an increasingly intense creative dance. I knew I would soon have to choose: continue writing in this state of delicious arousal, or yield to my body’s call for a more… physical release.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway froze me, cock pulsing and mind on fire. The door to my office was ajar – I had forgotten to close it in my creative frenzy. My heart raced even faster, mixing fear and excitement. I should get dressed, but my body refused to move, as if exhibiting my state had become an integral part of my creative process.

‘Danger is the most powerful aphrodisiac…’ I typed feverishly.

The footsteps drew closer. I recognized their rhythm – Marc, my editor. The one who had commissioned this collection of erotic stories. The one whose appreciative glances during our meetings had inspired me so much…

‘Male desire feeds on missed opportunities and stolen moments…’ I heard him stop in front of my door.

My cock twitched, offering a new pearl of fluid that slid down my glans, tracing a glistening path along my taut flesh. The screen cast a bluish glow on my erect member, like an obscene spotlight.

‘Silence becomes electric when two desires recognize each other…’ A discrete knock at the door.

My breathing suspended. My finger hovered above the ‘Enter’ key. Two choices presented themselves: hastily hide my state, or… fully embrace this moment of truth. My cock made the decision for me, throbbing with anticipation.

‘Come in,’ my voice was hoarse with desire.

The door opened slowly. Marc appeared in the doorway, folder in hand. His eyes widened at the spectacle I offered: sitting at my desk, robe half-open, my member proudly erect, glistening with desire under the screen’s light.

‘I see inspiration is flowing freely,’ he said in a deep voice, closing the door behind him.

‘Authentic desire knows no modesty…’ I typed without breaking eye contact.

He approached, his gaze alternating between the screen and my pulsing cock. A significant bulge distorted his suit pants.

‘Show me what you’ve written,’ he commanded softly, positioning himself behind me.

I felt his heat, his woody cologne. His breath caressed my neck as he leaned in to read. His silk tie brushed my bare shoulder.

‘The male body is a book meant to be read with hands…’ I wrote, trembling.

His hand settled on my shoulder, burning through the thin fabric of my robe.

‘Continue,’ he whispered.

‘Male authority is an aphrodisiac…’ The words appeared as if by magic while his hand slowly descended along my chest.

‘More explicit,’ he commanded, his voice grown husky. My fingers danced on the keyboard:

‘His cock pulses to the rhythm of the words he writes, each drop of pre-cum a line of dialogue between desire and creation…’ His hand reached my lower abdomen, stopping just inches from my throbbing member.

‘More,’ he demanded.

‘The desire of one man for another is a symphony of flesh and…’ The words blurred when his hand finally wrapped around my cock.

‘You’re truly gifted,’ he whispered, beginning a slow stroke.

‘But I think you need a more… direct experience to feed your inspiration.’

‘First editing lesson,’ Marc murmured, his hand maintaining a deliciously slow rhythm on my cock.

‘Sometimes, you need to know when to… stop writing.’ With a fluid motion, he spun my chair, tearing me away from the keyboard.

His burning gaze traveled down my body, lingering on my erect member dripping abundantly in his hand.

‘Second lesson,’ he continued, loosening his tie with his free hand.

‘Direct experience is the best source of inspiration.’ He knelt between my legs, his Italian suit deliciously wrinkled in contrast to the situation. His editor’s eyes analyzed my cock like a precious manuscript.

‘I see you have a… natural talent,’ he said, his thumb spreading a drop of fluid over my sensitive glans.

‘But every talent needs to be… refined.’ His silk tie slipped to the floor as he leaned toward my cock. His hot breath made me shiver with anticipation.

‘Third lesson,’ he murmured, his lips brushing my glistening glans.

‘The best way to understand male desire…’ His tongue emerged, delicately tasting my nectar. A moan escaped me. ‘…is to savor it fully.’

His intellectual face disappeared between my thighs, his mouth wrapping around my cock with unexpected expertise. My hands gripped the armrests as he began a thorough reading of my desire. His tongue traced silent sentences along my shaft, his rhythm alternating between slow, almost poetic passages, and passionate accelerations. Each suction was like a new chapter of pleasure.

‘Oh fuck… Marc…’

He looked up without ceasing his oral caresses, his intense gaze piercing through me. His hands moved up my thighs, under my robe…

His hands were now exploring my thighs with the attention of a literary critic discovering a new text. His mouth continued its feast on my throbbing cock, alternating between deep, long sucks and expert tongue play on my hypersensitive glans.

‘Fourth lesson,’ he said, pulling back for a moment, a thread of saliva and pre-cum still connecting his mouth to my glistening glans.

‘A good text must know how to… build intensity.’ His fingers found my testicles, massaging them gently as he dove back onto my cock.

I felt the pressure building, my body tensing under his oral expertise. Suddenly, he straightened up, wiping his mouth with a distinguished backhand. His wrinkled suit and desire-clouded gaze created a delicious contrast with his usual professional demeanor.

‘Fifth lesson,’ he whispered, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

‘The best stories are those that know how to… surprise.’ He let his shirt slide off, revealing unexpected muscled chest beneath his strict suits. His hands moved down to his belt…

‘And now,’ he said in a husky voice, ‘I’m going to show you how a true editor… deepens a text.’ His belt clattered to the floor…

The sound of his zipper descending resonated through the office like a promise of lust. His suit pants slid down his sculpted legs, revealing black boxers stretched to their limit.

‘A good author must know…’ He slid down his boxers, freeing a magnificent cock, ‘how to accept all his editor’s suggestions.’ His thick member stood proudly, a pearl of desire already glistening at its tip. He stepped closer, his cock at face level.

‘Sixth lesson,’ he murmured, his glans brushing my lips. ‘The art of reciprocity…’ I opened my mouth, welcoming his thickness with a hungry moan.

His hands sank into my hair as I tasted him for the first time, savoring his musky flavor, his heat, his pure masculinity.

‘Mmh… I see you have a natural talent for… textual analysis,’ he groaned as my tongue explored his pulsing shaft.

His hips began a slow back and forth, his cock sliding between my lips with increasing intensity. Each thrust was like a new line in our erotic story. Suddenly, he pulled back, leaving me panting and hungry.

‘Seventh lesson,’ he said, pulling me up from my chair.

‘The best stories deserve multiple… analytical positions.’ He pushed me against the desk, sending some papers flying. His hand traveled down my spine, stopping just above my ass.

‘A good editor must know…’ his fingers ventured lower, exploratory, ‘…how to prepare his ground.’

I felt something wet – he had retrieved the lube from my desk drawer. His expert fingers began their preparatory work, making me moan with anticipation.

‘The art of editing,’ he whispered as he introduced a second finger, ‘is knowing when to… penetrate the text.’ His other hand held my neck, keeping me pinned against the desk. My cock throbbed against the cold wood, leaving glistening traces of desire.

‘Are you ready for the final revision?’ he asked, his thick glans pressing against my prepared entrance.

‘Oh fuck, yes… edit me…’ I moaned, lost in desire.

He entered me with deliberate slowness, each inch of his thick member opening new horizons of pleasure.

‘That’s it… accept… the full depth… of the analysis…’ His thrusts started slow, methodical, like a conscientious editor.

But soon, passion took over. His hips were slapping against my ass with increasing intensity, his cock filling me completely.

‘Do you like… how I’m editing… your text?’ he growled, accelerating even more.

‘Oh yes… yes… harder…’ I couldn’t control my moans anymore, my entire body vibrating under his assault. His hand left my neck to wrap around my cock, stroking it in rhythm with his thrusts.

‘Time… to conclude… this chapter…’ I could feel the orgasm building, irresistible.

His cock was hitting my prostate with each thrust, sending shocks of pleasure through my entire body. His breathing became erratic, his movements more brutal.

‘I’m going to… I’m going to…’\

‘Yes,’ he growled, ‘let’s come together… sign this contract… in style…’

The orgasm hit us like a tidal wave of ink and cum. My cock exploded in his hand, spraying the desk with long pearly streaks that ran down my manuscripts like a bodily signature.

‘Oh fuck… MARC!’ I screamed as he thrust one final time into me, his cock violently pulsing as he poured his ‘correction’ into the deepest part of my being.

Our bodies trembled in unison, fused in this moment of pure ecstasy where author and editor became one. His fingers dug into my hips, marking his editorial ownership on my quivering flesh.

‘Now that’s… a definitive… edition…’ he panted, his cock still pulsing inside me.

Slowly, he withdrew, and I felt his essence running down my thighs. He gently turned me around, kissing me for the first time, a kiss that tasted of sex and ink.

‘Final lesson,’ he whispered against my lips, his body pressed against mine.

‘The best stories deserve… a sequel.’ His gaze met mine, still veiled with pleasure but already tinted with future promises.

‘I think,’ he said, picking up his tie, ‘we should schedule weekly… editing sessions.’

I looked at my desk, the scattered papers stained with our mixed fluids, the screen still displaying my last coherent words.

‘Inspiration,’ I replied with a knowing smile, ‘only asks to be… channeled.’

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