Her Largesse

The mind is a Pandora's Box. From it do all thoughts come; all ideas, all fantasies, through this medium do all things both good and bad flow. The Patimokkha extolled no fewer than 227 virtues for a monk to follow – a tall order to follow, especially in a Western corporate world.

Why then did and do we seek such enlightenment? Maurice (Or Airrider as he was usually called) had plenty of time to contemplate it. While normally his meditation was light, this was anything but.
He had enclosed himself in a skin-tight bodysuit, one crafted of nothing but the finest of fibers and lined with state-of-the art reactive materials. And, as he had intended, his body was of no concern to him. Every inch was enclosed tightly; his features were smooth and svelt like a cyclists, leaving him snug and quite secure. The reactive metals kept him in an upright position; his arms in a box-tie behind his back (though without any physical external restraints) , his legs crossed, and his body straight – ironically looking very much like a statue himself, especially with the red leather hood he wore.

There was something unique about a one's identity, he mused. A person's 'identity' was far too broad a term to mean anything. It could not be all-encomassing or all-knowing. Much like the word 'gay,' he thought, which  could run the gamut in reference to sexuality.

In a similar vein, too often were umbrella terms used interchangeably with more specific and useful words. "Psychosis," for example, had a sinister and threatening tone to it, but he knew that it referred to numerous phenomena. How did it come to be such a blanket term? Was it because it was more memorable? Maybe it was because the word seemed simpler or more intellectual and it gave any sort of diagnosis an air of Classical grace.

Classicism always had such a veneer of gracefulness, he thought. Classical Antiquity was such a broad term, but peoples' conceptions of it were always similar. Some 1,000 years could feasibly be considered part of the 'classical' age.

His train of thought derailed at that point. Dozens of brain cells dove from the train as it careened into the ravine that was the reticular activating system. His heart rate and blood pressure skyrocketed. In his mind, he was lost in the land of classical Greeks; who he was was irrelevant. He saw others; women, his wife among them, each of them staring lustily at his form. Soft, simple dresses of the softest white that flowed like the Aegean, exotic gems hanging from their ears daintily. His wife Silky stared at him, his personal Aphrodite, as other women, too, closed around him… her dress slipping slowly off, her sumptuous breasts escaping their satin sheath as
she approached him, rubbing her body and chest against his…

The rescue team arrived. The train-of-thought-crash was averted. Dozens of humanitarian brain cells helped their brethren from the smoldering wreckage.

"How did I get there?" he said, squirming slightly. He felt a most obvious bulge in his sheath underwear, one which kept his stiff member upwards against his stomach. One thing had led to another… but it eventually led to carnal desire.

What had happened? Surely he had not just let his mind slip that far. Was it so easy? Was it so… shameful to admit his desires?  He mumbled into his gagged lips, cursing himself. It was someone else's fault, he reasoned. Someone had implanted thoughts in his mind… or had touched him – perhaps mentally –

His train of thought suffered another setback. Relief workers were injured and falling into the ravine.
The sensation of soft and shapely gloved fingers unzipping his suit hit him like a crashing passenger car. Someone else was in the room… quite literally violating his bubble. Her fingers stroked his member and he twitched reflexively. The mesh kept him all but rigid; like a leather-bound Buddha, he cativated and moaned into his hooded face, hands twitchening and fingers writhing against the air. Passion was the enemy; he sought clarity. The only clarity he knew…

She stroked his rod. He was so tense he nearly burst.

…was that he had no clarity. His mind was rocked. He had no response; he had been trapped.
He felt the nearness of a person, a heat and warmth; he felt the light touch as hands passed over his trapped form. Then with a startling suddenness,  vibrations – not just villainous hands touching hum, but the feeling of tiny pads the size of fingertips against the base of his shaft. Hhe grunted at the ferocity of the attack, rebuffing the wicked assailant while simultaneously enjoying the helplessness. He was going nowhere fast, and had no response but to enjoy his attacker. He reflexively begane pumping forward, thrusting his hips for what little he good, filling himr with complete desire for the mysterious stranger that made this possible..

He tensed as the building passion sought releas; his body quickly tensed up, eager to slake his thirst. He was being pushed; his last train of coherent thought was a carriage on the edge of a ravine, just inches from falling into a chasm of lust and vice.

He panted and grunted, trying to find final release. His own binding held him tightly as each and every lithe muscle of strained in his fruitless desire. The fingers went up and down, gyrating, covering his cock, finding his softest and most vulnerable spots and excorciating them. As he approached climax, he was sure that she was going to stop… leave him on the edge and save his poor thoughts…
But no. His attacker was both cruel and unusual; yet simultaneously kind. The climax brought him incredible passion, a loud but muffled moan into his gag as he burst, his strength and passion leaving him as he heaved in afterglow.

It was all he needed. He smiled behind his personal prison.

"One's first step in wisdom is to question everything. One's last step is to come to terms with everything."  -George C. Lichtenberg