Letter from the trenches

After wetting the envelope flap with his tongue the private folded it over and sealed it closed. He then set the letter aside and drew a fresh, clean sheet of stationery from the box. After adjusting his attitude in the cramped confines of the gray and cold cubbyhole, he realized the aim of the enemy's heavy artillery had been fixed slightly to the south, rendering their threat less potent for the moment. He licked the stubby pencil lead and set to writing.

May 11th, 1918

My Bed Friend, With that Most Perfect of Roses,

Those boys across the way are on us again. Fritz has retaliated against our drumming of them earlier today with a rain of heavy shelling, pinning us down in our trench. Fortunately, their interests seem to lie somewhere further down the line, aiming their big guns slightly off our position. There are unspoken thanks among my company, yet at the same time, dreadful thoughts of our fellow men that are beneath that wrath. It is a frightful and troubling realm of unknown outcome here, the sheer randomness of the bombardments frightening to the core.

I have acquired a tenant in my little hole in the form of a rat who looks at me with such sad eyes as to almost make me sympathetic. I'm enjoying some rebellion and breaking orders in having shed my boots for a moment. It is strict rule to never have them off. That is our pitiful definition of spoils here: to sneak one's boots off so the toes can enjoy a moment of air against the fear of trench foot.

I received your letter dated the 26th. Please do keep them coming, as your reveries bring me more joy than you could know. They sweep me away from this hell and violence. If I concentrate hard enough I find myself not in the cold, muddy, rat- and lice-infested trenches under the indiscriminate fall of heavy artillery, but rather in your room at the Avalon. The sheer curtains wafting in the afternoon breeze and your beautiful nakedness laid back on the wrought iron bed, amorously awakened among the folds of white bedding and soft pillows. I can become so engrossed in that image that I forget where I am, even when the big guns are letting go, and drift away into your arms, into your breasts, with their hard brown nipples, into the soft, beautiful folds of rose petals between your legs . . . your luscious vagina, your magnificent and wondrous cunt, full with the plumpness of amour, ready for a thorough pounding. I so clearly conjure the memory of the sun coming through the window of your flat and the sound of birds as we fucked, with our hands and mouths busy on each other. And, after our fucking, to watch you in the bathroom as you tended yourself, the door open for me to watch, the sight bringing me to arousal again, to which we began the process all over, defeating your attempts to freshen yourself.

Have I ever shared with you the little secret I enjoyed on the trolley ride home after our visits? Crowded in tight among the throng, in private mischief, unknown by my fellow riders, I would pretend to be in thought, running my finger across my mustache. In fact, I was rousing the sweet smell of your vagina from my facial hair to smell in your gloriousness and relive for the moment our afternoon tryst. The other riders must have been curious as to what was bringing that smile to my face. It was you my dear, and the lingering loveliness of your little rose, your perfect cunt in marriage to my cock in a pre- ordained union of immaculate fit.

Thoughts of you and your perfection with the antics of love keep me afloat in dreams that take me away from all this. If you were here, now, I would fuck you into a glorious oblivion. When I do manage a moment alone I immediately get erect at thought of you, your lovely ass, your breasts in my hands, and the memory of my prick up inside you. As you might imagine, with the infrequent privacy afforded here, it doesn't take me long to spill myself in a glorious fantasy of being inside you, imagining your pleasured squirms as I take you. Please do keep yourself preserved for me, as I will be ready to fuck you endlessly upon my return.

I did have a scare recently, though not of the war, but rather when I thought I had misplaced the PASSED AS CENSORED stamp I acquired through those dubious (and rather expensive) means from the senior mail supervisor. For without that stamp of approval, these letters of mine would be confiscated and after being consumed in goings over by the censoring staff (after enjoying our lascivious acts) I would be reprimanded. As well, my descriptions of what the war is like, with my less than shining assessments of how things are going, would be regarded as high treason and I would be court-martialed and placed in the stockade. But you must know how important the telling of the realities here in the trenches is for me, as it grants me a very much-needed outlet. This is something I could never dare venture with Miss Vicky. She is not of a constitution or of enough life experience yet to be able to comprehend. Given her sheltered existence I fear I would only shock and confuse her. So, I thank for you being sympathetic and understanding of my situation.

I am counting the days until I return home and can again taste you, have you, consume you. You are my bed friend, my lover, my mistress, and I miss you. I want you, always. Touch yourself as you read this and think of me inside you. Please, keep the letters coming, they are a welcome relief from this hell. And keep them rubbed with your being. I like to imagine the trek of the pages visiting those nether regions of you before being folded and slipped into the envelope. And not to worry, I did discern the play of the smell of the front and back of you on the front and back of the pages. Know that in turn, my letters will always carry with them my scent.

With thoughts unutterable, Warren

Reaching into his pants, rubbing his groin, the soldier passed his fingers over the cream-colored sheet of stationery. Folding the pages into their matching envelope, he wetted the shabby little pencil to address the letter.

PVT. Warren White

112th Infantry Regiment (16th Pennsylvania)

Camille Borden

c/o The Avalon Hotel

19 Bayfront Parkway, Erie, Pennsylvania United States of America