Dearest Rebecca

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Matthew, away from home, writes to his wife.
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Dearest Rebecca

It seems that the further I travel, the more I think of you. After two months, three weeks and two days, I'm starting to see you everywhere. I never realised that cliché was true, until now. Behind the reception desk this morning, a woman with her back to me turned slightly to talk to her colleague, brushed a curtain of blonde hair from her face, and in that one moment, I believed she was you. Later, a sweeping hand movement from one of the Italian wine tasters so reminded me of your body language that I was rendered incapable of speech; you know how rare that is! But these are only moments, physical memories, living photos that suggest you to me, and disappear like phantoms.

Even worse is how wonderful it would be to share this place with you. Languedoc is so beautiful now, especially early in the morning. I was up early and walked out through the vineyards while the shadows were still long, the dew on the darkened grapes casting tiny rainbows, the morning sun turning the stone walls the colour of honey, dripping from the comb. The wine is divine, and the hotel room... well, it allows the imagination to run wild. There's room for five in the bath, I've paced it out. Plenty of room for writhing and thrashing about. With the shutters open, you can see mile after mile of terraced hills from the bed, and the air smells of wood smoke, garlicky cooking, and the grape harvest. Though I wish you could, I know you aren't going to join me here, so I imagine instead returning to you.

I'm wearing your favourite of my suits, charcoal grey, a thin chalk stripe. My blue tie that you claim brings out the colour in my eyes. A crisp white shirt, the cuff-links from our first anniversary. You meet me at the Euro Star terminal, we hug, I tell you that I love you, and feel my heart skip when you say the same. We kiss, for just a second longer than is appropriate in public. We head for the tube, and stand close together all the way home. Our conversation is stilted. We are too engrossed in the physical for talk; that will come later. I am captivated by your beauty, by your easy sexuality. Aroused that you have dressed purely to please me, with your hair loose, a tight-fitting white cardigan and a long dark skirt, split high up the side. The only make up you're wearing is that shocking scarlet lipstick that I love so much. It's all I can do to keep my hands vaguely to myself until we get home.

As soon as we step through the door you are in my arms. I feel you slipping your slender arms around me, pulling me towards you as I lean down to kiss you, to bite your red lips, to feel again my passion rise as you kiss me back, hard, needing me as much as I need you. Our eyes are locked together. You rise onto your toes, arch your back and lean against me with every inch of your perfect body. I want to prolong the moment, but lust is overtaking me. I take you by the ass and lift you, so light and fragile, and you lock your thighs around my waist as I carry you up the stairs. You are nuzzling my neck, biting my ear lobes, and I practically run into the bedroom. As soon as your feet hit the floor, I take your cardigan in both hands and rip. Buttons fly off, and I begin to kiss your naked chest, trying to take my time, to become accustomed again to the sight of you, to the taste of your sweat, to your perfume. I can't make myself go slowly. I support your breast with three fingers, pulling it towards me. I begin to caress, tickle, rub and squeeze your nipple between finger and thumb.

My mouth traces tiny kisses in ever decreasing circles around your breast. As I look up, your eyes are half closed; you gaze down at me from between your eyelashes. I see your eyes flash as I run my tongue over your hardened nipple for the first time. My free hand struggles with your skirt button. You have loosened my tie, unbuttoned my shirt and worked your hand inside, scratching my chest, pulling hard at my nipples. As your skirt falls to the floor, you step from it, remove my belt, and as I struggle out of my trousers, you push me backwards, hard. Hampered by the loose cloth, I fall onto the bed. Laughing, you straddle me, removing my trousers and boxers with a single push. I lie naked and stare at you, almost unwilling to believe you are mine again after so long. You lean forwards and kiss me, hard, the point of your tongue probing my mouth, your lips mashing against mine. This isn't a kiss, this is an act of aggression, a statement of intent.

I rise to your implicit challenge and grab you, turn you onto your back with a calculated roughness. Naked now, I feel the surges of arousal causing my cock to pulse, as I stare down at your nipples, so dark against your pale skin. They still amaze me, so tiny, so dark, so hard. A drip of sweat rolls down the soft peak, through the valley between your breasts and across your taut stomach. I follow it with my eyes, my voracious gaze continues downwards, I can see your arousal, your thong turned from white to transparent, a glimmer of downy hair to either side of the material as your lips widen.

I touch the bead of sweat with the tip of my tongue, making the contact as light as possible. I drag my tongue down your stomach for perhaps an inch, and my cock stiffens as I watch you arch your back towards me, as I watch how much you want me. I run my tongue up your stomach, up into the valley between your breasts up the soft peak of your breast. I trace circles around the hard darkness of your nipple, I hear the faint whistle as you breathe sharply through inadvertently pursed lips. I reach up to caress your cheek, I run my fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck, pull your head up to meet my passionate kiss. My kiss is no act of aggression; it is a statement of love.

I kiss your beautiful breasts once more, and now your lips are parted, and I hear your breathing in rapid, irregular gasps. Your hands are continuing to explore my chest, but I sense a new urgency in your touch. You pull at my nipple, your other hand running quickly over my abdomen, but you cannot reach me, though we both ache for that touch. Half kneeling, half crouching above you, I run my hand down your body, the backs of my fingers scratching gently across your ribs, the tenderness of your waist, the line of your hip. I turn my hand just above your knee, exploring with a single fingertip the inside of your thigh, so firm, yet yielding to my touch.

I feel the heat of your sex long before I touch you. You are writhing as I tease you, my finger tracing its route ever more slowly. When my finger runs for the first time over your saturated lace, it is a release, a relief for us both. Through the fabric, I gently probe your engorged lips, thrilled by the feel of your most intimate self, after so long. I place a hand to the small of your back, lift you slightly from the bed, and hook a finger in the waist of your panties, pulling them down to your knees. You wriggle out of them, and our eyes lock together as I lay alongside you. My leg pushes you down into the bed, my cock is pressing against your hip, as I touch your naked pussy at last, at long last.

You reach up towards me, twisting, encouraging me to touch you harder, not to tease any longer. As you take my straining cock firmly in your hand, I gasp, and my own explorations take on a new pace. I kiss you again, lust and love intermingled as I place my middle finger upon your bud. Your eyes widen, flashing ocean blue as I begin to rub my finger up and down, faster and faster. I push harder, and you raise yourself up towards me, your leg quivering slightly below mine, your hips bucking. I taste your lipstick as you mash your mouth against my lips, your tongue dancing with mine.

You have always come exquisitely. Now I watch as you start to come again. There is a deep flush on your pale skin, your mouth suddenly open wide, your back arched. I feel your clitoris harden beneath my finger, feel your entire body shake as press harder on you, trying to intensify your sensations. Your hips buck once, twice, and you twist convulsively to the right, as you give a shuddering, quavering breath, and relax against the pillow with a tiny smile. As I lean down to kiss you again, I run my hand through your hair again, now a darker blonde towards the tips, coloured by sweat.

You rest just for a moment, but soon your hand is in motion again, and as you continue to pump my cock, you pull me to the edge of the bed, slip down beside me, and kneel on the floor. The position is incongruously religious, the hint of taboo arouses me, and you sense this. You smile up at me, your full lips slide over the tip of my moist cock and down my shaft. As you pump your mouth up I watch the lipstick stain turn from palest pink to scarlet. You are really fucking my cock with your mouth now, moving faster and faster.

Nobody has ever given me head with such abandon. You are wanton, you suck me voraciously. It is so unlike your public persona, so sluttish. I can't hold on for much longer. As my cock hardens yet more, becomes almost painful, you give the tip one last swirl with your tongue, and then pump me with your hands as I come hard, three spasms coating your face. You lick your lips as the first drop forms a bead in the valley between your breasts, running slowly down your stomach.

Just three more weeks, my love. I am counting the minutes until I can return to you. I hope that reading this letter arouses you as much as writing it arouses me. It is no substitute for your touch.

Until the 28th, with all my love

Matthew

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AnonymousAnonymousover 17 years ago
Beautifully written

You're one of those rare writers who make me want to read every word, the description, the buildup, all exquisite here. I love the repetition of the kiss as an act of aggression. Just gorgeous. Romantic and hot, did I mention hot? More, more, more.

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