Letterotica 01

London. April 2006

My darling Elle,

At our last rendezvous I promised you my words and I offer them humbly here.

You are well-versed in the unspoken essence of these letters, words and sentences. You have felt that essence on your spectacular body and deep within the glorious depth of your soul.

You asked me, simply and in a murmured, sexy voice:

"What I remember when we are apart? What do you think about"

What I remember and what I feel are eternally united.

My remembrances are countless. What do I remember?

I remember the very first time I saw you. You wore that dress like the sky wears a cloud. That is what I remember. Black as night. Light as a feather. Strangely loose and tight at the same time. Your hair was up in a whirl of elegance. Your legs embraced by sheer silk stockings. You held that glass of champagne delicately with two fingers.

I remember your breasts and the revealing cleavage in which they were presented to all lookers at that house in Saint Raphael. I don't remember who introduced us or why but I do recall that air of sex that caused the partygoers to simmer and bubble with each their desires.

I remember our laughs and flirts and the promise of sexual gratification that blossomed like an untended garden over the course of the hour and a half that we talked. For some strange reason I remember the lush moistness of your lips for than anything and my desire to suck your bottom lip into my mouth.

That was May 2000. Cannes had ended but the party continued around Provence. Spring was easing into summer and that is the most erotic season of them all.

I have just consulted my calendar. Since May 2000, since sealing our pact, we have met 16 times. Twice a year on average, with a couple of unscheduled interludes thrown in. I don't dare attempt to calculate how many orgasms we've achieved.

In many ways it is one long orgasm. One eternal wave of pleasure.

There are many things that I think about in the months between each rendezvous. For the purposes of clarity I won't include my thoughts about you. As a person. A woman. A friend. They have no place here. They are reserved for us - together and apart.

Instead I'll tell you about how I remember your cunt.

When we are apart I think about your cunt. I think about the very first time I saw it. On the beach an hour and a half after we first met. That little crescent of sand surrounded by sentinel cliffs. The sun was promising to rise over the Med. The sky was fantastic. But all that I saw was your cunt.

I knew we would fuck. You knew it, too. That we ended up on the beach like teenagers instead of in one of our beds still causes me to smile.

But back to your cunt. With the sexiest smile in history I remember how you lifted up the hem of your dress. Daintily, erotically, sexily. And revealed to me your fabulous lack of knickers. I had tried unsuccessfully to assess if you were wearing any as we spoke earlier. Now I knew why. Your silk stockings hugged your thighs, unaided by garters and such American things. And at the top of your thighs was your exquisite cunt. A tiny tuft of hair above your clit but otherwise as smooth and bare and silky as could be.

You thrust your hips towards me ever so slightly. An invitation that had already been RSVP'ed. Your cunt lips were swollen with your arousal. They were as moist as your mouth. Glistening with promise in the pre-dawn light.

I remember thinking of sexy things to say right then and there and then thinking that words were so fucking unnecessary. Our eyes were aligned. Our thoughts were mutual. Neither of us needed to direct the other. When I took your hand, you knew.

When I sank down onto the sand, you followed, anticipating every move. Like a chess master who can read his opponent's moves right to the checkmate.

I had barely lay back on the sand before you were astride me. Our fingers worked together, effectively and gracefully, to unzip my fly and release my hard, eager cock.

The most blindingly clear memory I have is what followed. The brilliant supernova sight of my engorged cockhead, held steady by my hand, trembling just below your cunthole. You held your hem up so I could see - your eyes were on mine... you knew how absorbed I was in the visual moment before me - and you wiggled your ass downwards until my cockhead nestled against your cuntlips. We waltzed together right then, as we still do. Your tiny, rotating downward wiggling and my subtle upward nudging and aiming resulted in my breath leaving my body only to be replaced by ecstasy as my cockhead burrowed past your shaved lips. Into the very heated heart of your sex. Your thick cunt lips spreading wide to accommodate me. Your low squeal answering my uncontrollable moan.

I remember the sight of my cock disappearing inside of you until I could feel your wet lips resting on my pubic mound. The rest of the fucking that followed matched every fuck that we have had in intensity and passion but I remember that point of entry more brilliantly than any other.

I remember it often. When we're apart. As recently as yesterday, in a Berlin hotel room, I remembered it. When I need to jack off and I need inspiration I remember the beach and your cunt and that ever so rare sensation that my cock and your cunt are a perfect match.

I remembered it in the shower of that hotel room. I remembered it sharply and crystal clear as I jacked my cock for you, splattering my cum on the tiles in a breathless, intense ejaculation.

The months we are apart are long. They are, on occasion, unbearable. But the above visuals are with me. That first meeting of my cock and your cunt sits high atop my list of things I remember, things I think about, when we're apart.

There are, however, many more not-forgotten memories, Elle. They are invariably sexual and they are invariably glorious. Many involve your cunt and the things it has done to me, physically and mentally. But there are also memories of your wonderful tits and their crowns of nipples, your ass (inside and out), your legs that go on forever, your hot, wet mouth and lips, your slender fingers... I could go on.

For now, however, I must grip my cock firmly for you, jacking it hard and fast to orgasm, while I await your reply.

Your Lover.

'Coolville'