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Devoted

Devoted
By TeraS

 

Imagine, if you will, you see across a room the single thing you’ve always wanted, desired, were open to regardless of the cost.

It’s … her.

You’ve dreamed about her smile, her lovely ruby red lips that seduce you from afar; the shine of light in the room which brings out the achingly kissable texture of her lips, which you can feel, somehow, kissing your own from so far away, her eyes … her so wonderfully, deeply emerald-green eyes that pierce through the darkness of the room, capturing your own with but a glance in your direction. That darkness is pale in comparison with her wild raven mane, framing her lovely tanned flesh.

You can see, feel—and that shiver is thrilling—her mischievous power, how it caresses your soul, your mind. Your thoughts are drifting towards what she tastes like, how thrilling it would be to worship but the smallest little piece of her.

It would be, would it not, the one thing you’ve desired?

You pause there, far away, observing her. There’s that little nagging thought telling you that you aren’t worthy of her, that she’d never really cast a second thought about someone like you. The vision, the one that you hold deep inside, of kneeling, obeying, serving is but a fantasy, isn’t it?

But …

… it’s … her.

She’s holding court, there’s really no other way to explain it. The deference of those around her is clear, beyond reproach. The room has others, of course. They attract their own: those who have come to their own choices, believe in them—trust given for the bliss asked for. You could, of course, simply go off and find one, be accepted by them, have a place with them.

But …

… it’s … her.

Others pass between her and you, your breath catching when she isn’t there and then calming again when she comes back into focus. She remains there, regal, the Queen she is, observing those around her. Your thoughts turn towards her bemused smile and how dearly hard you are at the thought of being the one, on this night, to wean a passionate moan of delight from the Queen herself, to be—there is little doubt now in your thoughts—submissive to her; to obey her thoughts, the thrill of her praise being enough that you’d cum at her touch, her kiss, her power enveloping you and making you hers; giving up all pretense for the sake of gaining that which you need so dearly now that you cannot bring yourself to turn away. She would not be disappointed in you, of course … unless …

But …

… it’s … her.

A murmur comes from the souls in the room and your attention is diverted for an instant. Looking about, you wonder what caused it, but there’s no real sign. The pets mill about their owners, paraded by them, displayed as prizes to taunt and tease the others in the room. You sigh softly, knowing she’d never do such a thing. She values the souls that are hers. Again, that little wish comes to you, wanting, needing to be set free.

Your eyes turn back, seeking her out once more. A last little glimpse of the desire you’ve held and cultivated in hope. The throne—for it can only be that when she is upon it—is empty. The frown that comes tells how crestfallen you are to have missed her erotic form flow over the space, parting the seas of need, want, and desire around her, for what else could happen here in her Realm of power over all that orbit around her? Of course it is! You shake your head and scold your thoughts for missing the obvious.

But …

… it’s … her.

The night has come to a close; the pets depart with their owners and you are left alone. The sounds ebb away, leaving silence. The scent of perfume fades, leaving but clear air. The lights go out, one by one, until the last light left marks the way out. The moment is past, the night has moved on.

The steps towards the light are in silence, your thoughts still of her, still thinking about her touch, her scent, her desires. Your lips move silently, forming around the words you wanted to say to her, the words of devotion, belonging, needing: to obey, offer, give, anything to feel her hands, her lips; the simple words which you still wish to say.

A figure steps into the light, shocking your attention back to where you were going. You start to apologize for being tardy, babbling that you didn’t realize that the event was over and it was time to leave. But then three things bring you up short. The long sinuous tail that appears over the figure in shadow’s shoulder is unmistakable. The scent of cherries that tickles upon your senses is everything you imagined it would be. But most of all, her form, in all of her seductiveness, passion, love, and desire, it floods the space between you. The effect is to make you start to lose yourself, to fall into her.

You cannot speak nor move as she tilts her head to the right, idly flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. You want to touch her raven locks, to nuzzle your cheek against the velvet tangle that is her mane. The light that was behind her seems to become part of her, putting her form into contrast with the darkness that surrounds you both. You are—you have become—her singular focus. If you were one to fear her, you might think yourself as her prey.

But …

… it’s … her.

She traces her nails along her shapely bare thighs: that dress—the black one trimmed in red that leaves her legs bare to be worshipped, caressed, and licked—hides just enough that the need within you burns ever brighter for knowing that she is so close, so near now.

The thought comes to fall to your knees in submission, to offer yourself, your entire self, in mind, body, and soul. That thought seems to be perfect. But she remains just out of touch, waiting for something. Another thought comes of serving, to give anything she wishes. The thrill of her praise in being more than a pet makes the ache worse still, and you cannot help but clench your hands, the indecision not worth of her presence. But still she waits upon you. It is confusing, uncertain, unclear.

But …

… it’s … her.

She … purrs. If you were hard before, that was nothing to how you now ache. The clicking of her heels announces her approach, her scent stronger. The gleam in her eyes now, so close, makes that which you saw from afar a pale thing to recall. Was that moments ago or in time uncountable? You cannot remember, nor do you care to at this moment.

The first touch of her fingers against your skin lasts an eternity: a light brush of fingers over your wrist, along your arm; a soft tracing of nails over your cheek as she flows around you; the exquisite shock of her lips kissing your neck, your cheek. Whether it is being unable to move, not wanting to, or willing yourself to allow whatever she wishes, whichever isn’t important. Pressing against your back, her curves against you, long-nailed fingers guide themselves over your waist, to tease against the inside of your thighs, seeking out your want, need, desire. Still, you accept she is in control, she leads this dance.

But …

… it’s … her.

Reality shifts. The heat of bare skin against bare skin is unmistakable, as is the whine that escapes you as she still presses against you, her tail wrapping itself around one of your legs, her smooth fingers stroking your hardness. She purrs … no … she moans, breath hot against your ear, a lick of her tongue to tease you, pulling you into her, holding you. Her voice, sweet and syrupy, seeps into your thoughts. That little voice inside of you—the one you’ve know but not allowed—finally speaks the truth, the truth she’s known from the moment your eyes met. It isn’t about need or want, and the opening of that door within yourself leads to one thing. Your needs and wants turn into devotion. That devotion gives you but one singular purpose. You are hers, and hers for always.

Your knees touch the floor. Your eyes look upwards in submission to her desires, waiting for her to allow you to fulfill the purpose shining within you now. Your place is exactly where you needed to be, your lips against her skin as divine as she. The heat of her sex, your tongue pleasuring her makes you think of nothing else save to serve and obey. Your devotion to making her scream in pleasure is your entire purpose. Devotion, in all of its forms, leads to ecstasy and bliss as her fingers entwine themselves into your hair.

Your soul awakes with new purpose. The devotion of your soul to her is blinding in its brilliance. That missing piece within you falls into place. You are devoted to the Queen in all things, in all ways. The passions given are returned tenfold and more.

But …

… it’s … her.

The collar marks you as hers, however she wishes you to be, devoted in passion, lust, want and desire; given to all she is and all she sees within your own soul. Perhaps that little voice deep inside still wonders sometimes what she sees in you.

But …

… it’s … her.

She is as devoted to you for the soul that you are. For that is true devotion: the knowing of that truth alone.