Confessions of an Erotic Nature Ch. 03byStellaandhank©
This is the 3rd instalment in the letters between Hank and Stella. Chapters 1 and 2 are posted under "Letters and Transcripts".
My dear sweet Hank,
I had to write as I just couldn't wait to see you to tell you about the strangest (and most exciting) thing that happened to me today in London.
It turned very hot and humid this afternoon as I strolled around Camden Town market inhaling its history and smell of exotic food cooked on open fires. I quickly regretted my decision to wear jeans (London weather is so bloody unpredictable), so I tried on a short summer dress near the Stables Market. It was pale pink with a large black floral pattern, a scalloped neckline and tiny front buttons that revealed a soupcon of cleavage and best of all it fell just below my knees. It felt so good to be out of sticky jeans that I kept on my new dress for the rest of the day... grateful for the breeze blowing up my legs around the docks.
On the Tube on my way home, I stood facing the adjoining car to escape the throngs of sour faced commuters. I was day dreaming about you fucking me in my new dress. (It's like the red dress you love -- sweet and naughty at the same time.) I remember looking down with excitement at my new purchase. As I looked up I noticed a woman standing in the next car opposite me. She was very smartly dressed in an expensive looking tailored navy blue suit that screamed success and patent navy open toe pumps that screamed two weeks wages. The woman was staring at my new dress and I looked away pleased -- after all it is a compliment when other women notice what one is wearing.
I looked back at the woman and saw that she was still looking at me. Our eyes met and the woman unabashedly lowered her gaze to my breasts. She must also like the bodice of my dress, I thought naively. Another station passed. The doors opened and closed. Passengers entered and exited the train as the voice in the sky reminded them to "mind the gap."
I looked back again and the woman looked right into my eyes. Then she did something that I thought I must have imagined.The woman continued to stare right into my eyes and then, she licked her lips.
My pussy reacted before I did. It did a little involuntary lunge to nowhere and back again.
I kept my eyes down until I had the nerve to see if I had imagined things.
When I looked back at the woman, she smiled. I looked away, embarrassed. I looked back as the train lurched to its next stop, the doors opened and she was gone.
I stood there in a (wet) trance until I reached my own stop.
Tonight, as I hung my new dress on a hanger I noticed for the first time the label inside.
I kid you not, it read: "Stella"
I'm about to fall asleep but had to write to you because this whole experience has made me dizzy. The heat, the woman on the train, the dress with my name in it.
Stella (in the Stella dress)
We both know it would come to this again. It always does. Still I feel very sad to have ended things with such harsh words. Even if I was angry and hurt and this had been building up for a while.
I imagine you might be feeling as hurt as I am by all this -- for your own reasons -- most of which I will probably never fully understand.
But I don't want to end things on this note. I want you to wear the sweater from Spitalfields Market that I gave you for your birthday, and use the other gifts, and think of me when you do.
Because they are symbols of my love for you. Especially the "card."
P.S. Given our current circumstances, I wrote to Marianne and John and withdrew our previous letters of interest. I imagine they were disappointed. As was I.
You have loved me and I you .. we've touched each other and have more good feelings than negative. It's been very special. I'm wearing the sweater right now. It feels good and has your "name on it".
All your gifts will be with me, appreciated and loved. We will see each other again.. Sometime when our feelings are less raw.
You know I love you my Sweet French Whore.
Your Beautiful Man, Hank
I don't know how you are feeling about our last separation, but I honestly do not think I could survive something like this again. The emotional pain I still feel is visceral and I find myself being hit by waves of sadness so intense my body aches all the way to my feet. Perhaps you will see this as more of my "drama" but it's just the way I am. I assure you that I am not exaggerating. I wish I were.
Part of my pain is from the road blocks you put in front of me over the past two and half years. And the other part is from having lost the side of myself that only existed with you. The French Whore is dead. And I'm in mourning because part of myself has died.
I don't want to rehash all that has happened and been said between us. I will always be hurt about certain decisions you made and that unfortunately will never change -- no matter how many times and how many ways you tell me you love me. I doubt very much that you are sitting at home thinking about surrendering to your love for me. Or planning how we could make this relationship work. Or that you can't contemplate your future without me in it. I wish you were doing all these things. But I know you are not.
For these reasons, I am writing you is to ask you to let me get over this. It will probably take me a couple of years -- that's the way I am. I grieve for a long time. I hurt for a longer time. As much as you might love me, and desire me, and like me, I need for us not to see each other again. I need not to hear from you. It will just prolong my hurt.
You wrote that we will see each other again when we are less raw. Well, that can't happen. And you need to be the one to make sure it doesn't. I am weaker than you. I will want to entice you back into my arms and between my legs. And I will conveniently forget how much it will hurt afterwards. Like it does now. So please, if you do love me, just ignore any letters I might send you when I am feeling less strong. It's the only way.
I fill my days with work and children and sorting out kitchen drawers and cupboards. I do all those things that have been waiting patiently until I was desolate enough to pay them attention.
I realize that I been lonely for a long time, including that which you and I were together. And that I am ready for someone who has not "had enough of me after a day and a half." At these times, it is not difficult for me to slap myself out of yearning for you. I tell myself, firmly, he made his bed. Now he must lie in it. Alone.
At other times, my mind betrays me and I can only think of our unwavering sexual greed for each other. And I lie in my bed throbbing and wet. Alone.
Today I went to my local library and was the only one not hunched over and white-haired. (The public library is already a relic -- one day children will enter and ask "what is this place?") I combed the stacks looking for my favourite contemporary writers and piled my escape route in my arms. I decided to include something from the past as well and chose: Winter of Artifice by Anais Nin: mostly because I liked the title and the illustrations on the book cover. Later at home, I realized it was three actually "novelettes" and turned to the first story. It was called "Stella."
These eerie coincidences are exhausting to an overworked imagination like mine.
This rainy weather has condemned me to a week in bed and endless pills.Today is the first day that my head does not feel pummeled and bruised. To make matters more cruel, it meant I couldn't write my letters that nobody reads but me. These letters to myself.
No relief from the pain in my head.No relief from the ache in my cunt. No relief from the thoughts in my mind desperate to become words on a page. Today, though, there is peace. My head is clear and I'm on a post-migraine high. My fingers are happy to be typing once again into the abyss. Only my cunt is restless.
(Are other women like this? Unable to concentrate on anything else but the throbbing between their legs? I wish I knew. I always feel better to know I am not unlike others.)
I wouldn't be able to resist you today. I feel like relieving myself of this endless, deep ache for your cock. I feel like raping you. Using your hardness for my own needs. I would look at you with total lust in my eyes, my voice would be guttural as I whispered my desire for your cock. Then I would use you, Hank. A few thrusts is all it would take as I lifted my skirt and sat on you. I'd cum on you and then rub my full breasts all over your body, like an animal, still hungry for more, until you begged me to sit on you again. Begging me to use you again. Begging me to treat you like my whore. I'd ask, "Do you like that, whore?" and you'd answer,"I love it."
Last night I had a dream of perversion in which I was blindfolded and then told that different men would be going down on me. I was to see if I could tell when it was you. My pussy reacted to some mouths and was indifferent to others. Then your sweet mouth was on me. I knew it instantly. You kissed and licked the inside of my white, fleshy thighs. You licked my clitoris very gently until I started to moan and spread myself eagerly for more of your sweet attention. (My cunt is throbbing as I write this just remembering how vivid the dream was.) You started to suck me slowly as I lifted my hips up higher. You sucked me for the longest time until I couldn't take it anymore. I know it's you, I know it's you, I said moaning. The next thing I knew your hard cock was pushing inside me as I came all over your lovely hard hungry shaft. I can't wait to go to sleep tonight and fuck you again in my dreams.
I will not stop sending these letters to you. I will show you no mercy. Why should I be the only one to suffer through this? We are in sexual purgatory -- suffering from withdrawal of the most exquisite passion either of us has ever known. Why should it be easier for you than me? Why should I have to be the only one to listen to these voices in my head? These voices between my legs? It's not fair. You will listen too. Until the voices are extinguished through exhaustion.
I promised myself that I wouldn't write you and give you the time to heal, but it's not always easy especially when I think of our erotic times.
I want to fuck you say badly -- eat your sweet pussy and lick your sweet tits. I had to say it just so you know our desires are mutual.
I also know that we can't see each other even if the temptation is so powerful. I'm happy knowing you still crave to have my cock between your beautiful white thighs. I'm not happy that I make you sad.
I sometimes just want to tell you I miss you ... not to hurt you but just to tell you that its not always easy for me to end our communication.
You make me crazy Ms. Stella.
I imagine you with two miniature "Hanks" sitting on your shoulders -- the "Good Hank" and the "Bad Hank." They each torment you with conflicting advice -- one says to listen to your ethics and leave me alone; the other says to listen to your erection and write me.
You used to say that I love to be desired, but it is you who loves to be desired. As soon as there is radio silence from me you betray me (and yourself) and contact me. Because you want (and need) to know that I still hunger for your beautiful 60 year old cock. That I can taste it in my dreams. That I play with my breasts alone in my bed, making my nipples hard, and imagine it is your mouth on them. That I can't imagine ever fucking anyone else. Correction, that I can't imagine ever wanting to fuck anyone else.
We are sexual soul mates. I would take you back between my legs in a second. I would fuck you until you were 80. But I want (and need) you to desire me for more than my sweet cunt.
And you don't.
P.S. Tell me what you miss about me. I need to hear it. Why do I drive you crazy?
I miss your smell, taste, your affection, your words, your touch. Our sweet delicious intimacy.
You make me crazy because all I think about is making passionate love with you.
Fucking you wildly.
About Hank and Stella... A few years ago, Stella experienced a sexual re-awakening that changed the course of her life. As if they could smell her invisible pheromones, men looked at her face, her breasts, her hips with abandon. Or did they? Their real or perceived attention fueled her new sense of erotic self. She wanted to lose herself. And she did -- first in Anais Nin and Henry Miller. And then in her own photography and writing.
Stella waited for the right man (her own Henry Miller) to join her on her journey of "delicate perversions." She started to wonder if he existed or if she was living (once again) in the old books of dead writers.
This is about what happened when Stella finally found him. A man who had also been looking for someone with whom to get lost. She had no choice but to call him Hank. He had no choice but to see her as his "French Whore."