Solitudinous

Once I reach my bookcase, I trace my fingers along the shelf. I organised my books alphabetically by author and, then, by a rainbow colour system running from red to violet. I decide to take a moment to write out my To Be Read list, first. Due to my haphazard read of the Shannara Saga and the Valdemar Saga, I decide to mark them down as broadly unread.

Some of them, this means I will end up rereading, but that's acceptable to me. They're all good, so I rereading a few is fine if it means reading everything in the chronological order of the universe. I know I've read a few of them out of the intended order of the universe's timeline, but this seems like the right time to rectify that by reorienting myself.

Once I've made the list, I return to my bookcase, track down the The Black Gryphon, Book One of The Mage Wars Trilogy. The earliest book in the Valdemar Saga, by in-universe chronology, I pull it gently off the shelf. Even though I've ordered the book in hardcover, I try to be careful. I don't know what it's called, but I try not to ruin the bindings.

Book in hand, I lay down on my bed, after several minutes of having handwritten my T.B.R. list. I arch my spine until my back pops, position myself on my stomach, and hold the book against my pillow, using it as a prop. and starting my read. After a few minutes, I decide my room is a bit on the stuffier side, and put in one of my bookmarks for it.

Going to my window, I pull back the curtains, then open the window. Once the window is open, I take a moment to let the warm summer breeze drift across my skin. I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air flood my lungs and my senses, before I return to my bed, and my book. Stretching comfortably in the newly accessible breeze, I continue to read.

Reading has always been one of my favourite activities, alongside swimming and parkour, thanks to the optional activities at Camp Wolf Moon. As I read, I let myself become immersed in my reading, lost in the world that Mercedes Lackey offers, ever so meticulously lain out. I haven't read all of them, yet, but she's fast becoming a favourite author.

For a couple hours, I read in comfort, lost in the landscapes of a world wildly not-mine, a world where gryphons soar across the heavenly azure. I twitch and arch, when the sensation of a palm on my ass draws my attention, and pause to look over my shoulder. Mom waits, her cock already out and hard. She shakes her head as I start to set my book aside.

“Don't you dare, faggot,” Mom reassures me, “Keep reading. I'll be very gentle so I don't disturb you.” My cheeks warm as I smile at her calling me that. I love it when she calls me that. I nod obediently, turning my attention back to the book and resuming my reading. I can hear Mom moving, fetching the lubricant from my nightstand, to make it easier.

Mom lifts my hips just faintly from the bedspread underneath me. I arch my spine compliantly, but otherwise ignore Mom entirely, as instructed. I continue reading, biting my lower lip as she mounts the bed, and lays the lubricant on my back. I can feel her hands on my obliques, sliding down over my ass in a soft caress, down my thighs, around them.

Mom guides my legs apart, until my legs bend at the knees, and my feet and calves dangle limply over either edge. Gentle hands slide up the inside of my thighs, before I feel her lips on my ass. I feel the blush creep along my jawline and across my face, all the way back to my ears, as Mom's lips move to kiss both sides, before she draws her tongue up.

Every muscle tenses for a heartbeat, and I close my eyes, feeling Mom's tongue grind from my perineum to my tailbone, then back down. My eyes flutter, and I take a deep breath, before delicately turning the page in the book, and continuing my reading. I don't know if this is a test of my obedience or my programming, or one of Mom's fantasies.

Keeping on with my reading, I do my best to ignore Mom's tongue, grinding into me, forcing itself inside me. I shiver with arousal, in an involuntary reflex, as the tip of her tongue grinds into my prostate, forcing me to close my eyes once more. I can feel my own cock hardening, as Mom works me. The soft, vibratory moan she offers, makes it worse!

I don't know how long this goes on, but Mom doesn't seem interested in stopping early. Even as my cock hardens, Mom's tongue grinds into me, opening me up for her use. I force my breaths to deepen and lengthen, forcing myself bodily into a more meditative state, to resist. I ignore the sound of footsteps, and the feeling of a bottle beneath me.

Mom continues until my cock pulses from the stimulation her tongue offers. Her fingers slide between my thighs to wrap around my cock, angling me down, while the other lifts my hips a little higher. I continue to read, even as Mom milks me, draining my phallic milk into the bottle, before squeezing me to milk me for every drop of my cream.

I hear her cap the bottle, then lay it down on my back, before she gets the lubricant, and repositions. I can hear her start to lubricate herself, before I feel her crown. While I continue to read, Mom holds onto my hips firmly, gently, and sways. Her cock slides into me so slow I feel every millimetre of her advance as she eases all the way to the hilt.

I can feel it as Mom angles her hips to grind as forcefully across my prostate as she can. Her withdrawal is slow, wonderful torment, as her hips sway forward, before another infinitesimally slow retreat. I continue to read, losing track of time as I do, while Mom continues to fuck me at her slowest and most relaxed, almost serenely meditative, pace.

When my own cock starts to pulse, once more, Mom slides one hand up my back and the other down around my oblique. I can feel the bottle being positioned underneath me, as she reaches around. Smoothly grasping my cock in her fingers, she starts to stroke me in time with her own slow, leisurely thrusts. I arch, until my spine pops, as I unload.

Mom milks me, for the second time, without ever ceasing in her own pumping motions. My programming forces me into continued reading, as commanded, while I force myself to continue to take long, deep breaths. Slowly losing myself in the story once more, the sensual sensation of Mom fucking my ass so slow and gentle is actually soothing.

Some while later, I hear the sound of footsteps once more, and something ceramic set on my back. A mug, I would guess, from the feel of it, but I don't look up from my reading. Hours of reading is one of the most pleasant ways for me to while away the hours before bed. Eventually, I feel Mom pulling back, sliding out, and then the mug moves.

My eyes flutter reflexively when Mom's lips touch my sacrum, kissing gently. Her hands slide up and down my sides, from underneath my arms to my ass and thighs, as the mug is set down on my back, once more. Heavier, now, which means she likely unloaded her milk into the mug, rather than my ass. I don't look up, even as she leans over me.

One hand steadying the mug on my back, between her taut washboard abdomen and the soft plane of my back, the other slides forward. Her palm cups my cheek, and she turns my head just a little. Not enough to interfere with me continuing to read, but enough she can kiss me on one cheekbone while her thumb caresses across the other one.

“Good faggot,” Mom murmurs softly in my ear, and I smile happily, “Mama's perfect, beautiful little slut.” I feel her slide slowly away from me and off the bed, leaving the mug on my back for a moment, until she turns to me, picking it up off of my back and holding it down toward me. She tugs my hair, just enough to solicit my attention on her.

“Here, pause for a moment and drink,” Mom instructs, “You deserve a treat, and I want my pretty little whore to remain hydrated.” I smile, closing the book with one finger still in it, as I sit up and reposition, taking the mug. I drink quietly, as Mom stands in front of me, waiting, her own cock relaxed, now, hanging limp from her hips, satiated.

“Good boy, my sweet little fag,” Mom praises me lovingly, as I drink her milk until the mug is empty, and she holds a hand out to me. She strokes my cheek gently with the other hand as she takes the mug from me, then turns and walks away, but stops at the door. Mom half-turns, one hand on the doorframe, as she looks at me, and offers a smile.

“I love you, little sweet-whore,” Mom assures me, “Go on, go back to your reading, now.” I nod obediently and reopen the book, laying back on the bed and holding the book above me to continue reading for a while. I don't know how long I have until bedtime, but I'm enjoying the book, and the freedom to read on the comfort of my foam mattress.