He Adores Me

The little red dot in the upper corner of the screen told me I had a message.

It was probably from Miss Morrigan. Sometimes it was from someone else, someone offering a supportive comment on one of my writings; but usually it was my domme, graciously gifting me with a bit of her attention. Or tormenting me.

Sure enough, the message was from her, and it consisted of nothing but a link to another page on Fetlife. I clicked through. A picture opened up, filling my screen.

At the top of the image was the lower half of a woman's face, framed by waves of soft walnut-colored hair. Her skin was peach-colored and flawless; her lips were slightly parted, and painted a striking cherry-chocolate.

And there, less than an inch from those lips, thrusting upwards from the bottom half of the photo, was the bulbous head of an impressive erect penis, vein-lined and very dark, except for the places where the taut skin shone brilliant white in the glare of the camera flash. The rest of the bottom half of the photo showed his upper thigh and his fist gripping the root of his shaft, directing it toward the woman's face; and her hand, lightly resting on his, as if sharing in the effort, or blessing it. It was obviously a picture taken by the man himself, reclining on his back, enjoying the woman's oral attentions as if it were his due.

It took only a second for it to register with me that the woman in the photo was not Morrigan -- the jewelry wasn't right, although otherwise it could have been. But nevertheless, it was a picture that had captured her imagination, and she wanted me to see it, and that caused me great turmoil.

Because I knew she had probably been playing one of those "Fuck or Pass" games in a discussion group. I didn't participate in those games. I'm not the kind of guy who introduces himself to a beautiful stranger in a public forum by informing her and everyone else in the room that I would like to be intimate with her, let alone "fuck" her. And Morrigan tells me that my chivalry and eloquence are among the reasons she values me as a pet.

But she plays those games for her own amusement, and I accept that, even though it gives me deeply unsettling sensations in my gut. Of course, it is her prerogative to approach attractive men and express her interest in pursuing erotic endeavors with them, using whatever language she prefers. What really twists the knife for me, though, is when some random, arrogant bastard approaches HER, my GODDESS, and states, right there in front of God and everyone, that he hopes to FUCK her.

And then she responds to him.

I decided to respond coyly. "Impressive image. I like the contrast. Enhanced by her lipstick." I was trying not to suggest that it is the menacing cock that I was focused on, intimidated by. Then, after a hard return, "Do you have something in that shade?"

"I believe I do," she replied. "I believe you bought it for me."

That gave me a jolt, and then I was picturing her applying that lipstick, my gift to her, in preparation for placing her lips around some other man's glans. Her gift to him. I groaned at the thought.

Meanwhile I clicked through to see the profile of the man in the picture. He's from Antarctica, the same as Miss Morrigan. Well, Antarctica is a big place. He could be across the continent from her. Or he could be five minutes away, and on his way there now.

His one-word self-description is "Bull." Not "Dom" (that would probably disqualify him), not "Kinkster," not even "Switch." He's a Bull. I scanned the top line of his "About Me." He wants to offer his services to "your wife, girlfriend, or partner." Or adored goddess, I thought. I read it again. Your. He's not even using his profile to address women. He's addressing the cucks.

This is who Miss Morrigan wants me to know she's chatting with, I thought.

"He had a rather blatant screen name, too," I told her. "And his profile made it clear that he prefers women who are the wives, girlfriends, or, no doubt, goddesses of other men. My mouth always goes a little dry around those kind of guys..."

A moment later, she replied. "Those guys always present a fun contest of sorts for me, to see who can seduce the other first...but when it's love at first pic, well it's kind of hard to compete..."

God. Of course I knew she was teasing me, especially with the play on "love at first sight." Still. I liked to believe that I had earned her affection, repeatedly and consistently, with my devotion, with my gifts, and my words, and my mind. The suggestion that she could "fall for" some brazen bastard with a thick cock just shattered something inside me, filled my empty ego with the tinkling sound of the crystal shards of my self-esteem cascading down the shelves of the curio cabinet in my soul.

And I imagined that the sound amused her; was music to her ears.

I sighed, and envisioned the man in the photograph leaning back and closing his eyes and enjoying the indescribable pleasure of my Miss Morrigan's mouth on him. And worse, enjoying the belief that he deserved it. My heart sank and my stomach churned with jealousy and despair.

Of course, I would probably never know whether Miss Morrigan would ever actually meet this guy and let him have those exquisite experiences. Whether she actually even wanted to.

What I knew for a fact, though, was that she was going to give me, this experience. Day after day, over and over again. And she would love it. And that was why I adored her.