tagLetters & TranscriptsAwaiting Your Arrival

Awaiting Your Arrival


Dear Will,

I love you unconditionally too. What other kind of love should there be? Conditional love is not love. It's judgement. And haven't we all had enough of that?

You are such a good person, always have been. And I know that. And am so glad you evolved into the man you are today, though I never expected anything different from you.

The last few letters from you have left me racing to the bedroom whenever the opportunity arose, to touch myself and fantasize about how it would be with you. You really make my head spin and my body hum. You always have and always will.

God, I just don't understand what you do to me. Isn't it interesting that certain people can affect you in such a way?

I so look forward to seeing you and your sweet wife and family. It is going to be so great. I realize that I can't have you. That I'll never feel the touch of your fingertips on my lips, on my breast, inside me . . . or feel your hard cock pressing against my hand, inside me, be able to taste you . . . but . . .

I get to be your friend. And hug you. And cook with you (even though I'll be thinking about how it would be if you'd lift up my skirt (underneath my cute apron) and pull down my damp panties and fuck me hard from behind while I hold on to the counter . . . .

But the meal will be my ecstasy . . . and having you there . . . and feeding our families and seeing them grow. . . .

God, I'm so bad, but if I wasn't married and felt you pressed against me, I'd slide down your body, unzip your pants, take you out and caress you with my mouth and then mount you and feel you cum inside me.

I know I'm being naughty but you can trust me. I love my husband. And wouldn't do anything to spoil my marriage but I can fantasize, . . while I enjoy your true friendship and understand how life unfolds in it's own mysterious way . . .

I love you.



My dearest Lynn:

Thank you for your (most appreciated) kind words.

I'm wondering if the only difference between you and me and countless other people that have thrown away good relationships with their acts of infidelity is that we realize the folly of allowing our brains free reign over our bodies? And that related to this, we've found healthy ways to allow those parts of our brains to still be allowed to be expressed? And I still feel that we can't be as unique as we are tempted to wonder. Are there conservative religious groups that have already incorporated these concepts into their teachings?

Speaking of brains, free reign, and our bodies, by the end of your last sweet letter, I was slightly taken aback by the realization that my hand, of its own volition, was squeezing and caressing a newly created erection, apparently springing up without my input, to praise your letter. Perhaps the aforementioned religious groups would simply fault me for reading your letter while wearing only my boxers. But it's summertime, and it seems wasteful effort to dress right before showering?

I was particularly struck by the imagery in your letter, largely because of my shared love of cooking, eating, and lovemaking. Perhaps it goes without saying, or perhaps in order to be honest with myself, enjoyment of an alcoholic beverage should also be included among these shared loves. I guess that rules out the LDS church for us, then. Otherwise, we might have had some further interest in pursuing the ideas presented by the possibilities of multiple loving wives in one family...

As usual, my penis, and the seemingly 95% of the neurons in my brain it is innervated by, are completely baffled as to why we aren't making passionate love to each other. Their logic can be compelling, if not for their fallacious (fellatious?) premises: Whereas: 1) Lynn is a beautiful person, full of warmth and humor and amazing ideas, and 2) She persists in feeling similarly towards us despite successful completion of her sexual development and decades of time, and 3) She likely shags like a minx, Why are we not engaging what is left of our short lives of uncertain significance in the fulfillment of these mutually held beliefs? At which point, we might try to explain (yet again) that we are doing quite well fulfilling these desires, if not acting on them (without success). Our brains can be like children, can't they, in their childish stubbornness, interspersed with flashes of brilliance that should be listened to and reflected upon.

In the kitchen of our dreams, I've been using all the skills I've acquired from years of working under the most stressful conditions to maintain my gentlemanly external demeanor. The 5% of my neurons not receiving direct input from my tingling penis are beginning to mutiny, having listened too long, and longingly, to the praises of Lynn. With a single sideways look, you tip the balance, and a new pattern of neuronal firing instantly emerges in my brain. Now, somehow, I feel more comfortable, as some ancient program is being followed, and my brain at last is able to say "Oh, it's on!"

I accept your invitation to share the same physical location in the universe with you, wrapping my arms around you from behind, cautiously allowing my pelvis to rest against your magnetic backside. "I love you so much," is the only way that my brain can turn thoughts into words, hoping that the gasping quality of the speech helps to convey the richness of the message that seems lost in mere words. "I love you too, Will" reassures me, but from your understanding of me, you add a scrumptious wiggle of your hips against me to allow me to proceed.

Now that you've successfully completed the complex process of working through the years of distorted ideas collected in my brain, I need no further command to commence giving you the fucking you want and deserve (although I'm always open to suggestions, and commands). Since I now am allowed to have complete possession of all your secret charms, I cup both your breasts, gently at first, while nuzzling the back of your neck, and the mastoid processes on each side of your neck that have been driving me crazy ever since you tied up your hair and we embarked in this project.

I'm certain you must be able to feel the pressure of my erection against your ass, though I don't know the level of detail that you can perceive regarding size or location. "Fuck me, please," you plead, and I will, but old reflexes are activated, slowing and redirecting me. If you are frustrated, you don't show it. Perhaps you knew that I could never just plunge myself into you without multiple verifications that it's OK.

On my knees now, I can imagine that you must feel an insurmountable loss from the absence of my hands kneading your breasts and gently pinching your nipples. Cognizant of this, I trace my hands gently around your hips to massage your ass, my lips joining in without invitation. I run my fingers, and my tongue, under the edges of your panties. I pull them down, you dance out of them, and continue kissing you, while encouraging you to bend over the counter.

Now I have you, and you receive the tongue lashing that I've longed to give you. Even though I'm a man, I can't think of a nicer way to have my pussy opened than with my lover's slick tongue. You seem to agree, based on your groans and encouraging movements. "Will, please, fuck me now!" you pant. Reflexively, I pant "OK" in response, so as not to be impolite.

By now, the head of my cock is already glistening with precum, and I imagine that prior to future couplings you will take great pleasure in this phenomenon. I rub the head of my cock over your ass, leaving a slick trail, running it side to side to allow you to feel what is happening, hoping to avoid any sudden surprises. When the moment comes, I realize that I probably could have put three fingers into you at once without causing any discomfort.

My aching cock seems to be pulled into you, and after only two gentle strokes, I finally get the message that "Fuck me, please," and "Will, please, fuck me now!" are how you really feel, and I work hard to accommodate your desires. I grab your shoulders and begin deeply fucking you, feeling ourselves perfectly mated to each other. You're silent now, eyes closed, but I feel a sense of peace, even though my crisis looms, that I am doing the right thing, and making you feel happy.

I'm sweating now, a combination of heat, exertion, and rising autonomic sympathetic stimulation preparing to fill your pussy with cum. "Lynn, I'm coming," is all I can muster to encompass the complex feelings and worries I have as to whether I've lasted long enough, whether I've satisfied you, where do you want my sweet cum... "Don't stop," you say, reassuring me to the end that we're friends, that you love me, and that I'm a good friend. Involuntarily, I cry out as I feel my cock explode inside you, leaping with each spasm, continuing until I feel I must be empty.

In our happiness and sweet lethargy, we decide to turn our cooking efforts into prep work for the next day. After cleaning ourselves (and each other), sharing reassuring words, and collecting our garments into place, we return to our families to announce that the new plan is to go out for pizza. No one objects, and positive emotions abound.

Your ever-loving,


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