St. Raphael, Avril 2006
Reply to Letterotica 03 by Coolville
So many conjured images in your last letter:
"Eager bodies and souls"
"Slowly and teasingly fucking"
"Lips sucking hungrily"
Words that tickle, tremble, tease. It is though this phrase that sums it all up for me: "exploring and evolving and orgasming..."
Three distinct actions. All powerfully emotional. All comprised of forward, onward movement. Moving towards better things. The promise of betterment. A better future. Release. Satisfaction. Oneness.
All in all quite religious. Buddhistic in a way. Although the quest is populated by a pair of souls rather than just the one. That only makes it more noble. More eloquent, no?
Speaking of eloquence, I think often of your cock. I peruse often the photos you have sent to me, buried in a folder deep within the bowels of my laptop, complete with secret, coded folder names. Affairs are so similar to espionage. Mostly I peruse the ones of you at home alone in your flat. Of you and your cock. Of you urging your cock on to orgasm for me, despite the geographical barrier that separates us when we are apart.
I have no interest in geography. No interest whatsoever in knowing the capitals of insignificant nations or the population figures of Central American countries. And so it is odd for me to contemplate this ever-present geographical barrier.
And here I can present a secret to you, darling. There are few remaining between us and there MUST remain some, but I can reveal one thing to you.
This ungeographically inclined (or is that geographically uninclined?) woman is obsessed by location and distance and whereabouts. Your whereabouts and mine.
Your emails reveal to me where you are on the planet. More often than not I have a pinpoint idea of your location. Do you know what I do while alone on the terrace in the evenings or in my office in the attic? Or in the Paris flat or in hotel rooms all over the Continent? I calculate the distance between us.
The physical distance.
I have made an error by beginning to do this. (I started about a year ago - when you started travelling with your work more often). I have made the error of weaving all these boring numbers and calculations of latitudes and longitudes together with my emotions.
I have made the mistake of letting my emotions and longing and desires increase exponentially according to where you are in relation to me.
The calculations are often long and complicated and time-consuming. It is easier if we are both at home in Europe. If I'm at the flat in Paris and you are in London there are 342 kilometres of lust-filled air between us - give or take depending on your hotel.
Paris - Copenhagen: 1025.9 kilometres. Berlin - Milano: 845.
These are city centre to city centre distances, of course. By googleearthing your exact hotel and thereby the lat. and long. I can make it more precise. The greatest distance within Europe has been 2986 km. When you were in Stockholm and I was on that shoot in Lisbon.
I first sensed it there but I first really felt it when you were in Tokyo last fall. I was in Cape Town and even though it was lovely, I felt so alone and so lost.
14802.27199566394 kilometres were between us. And I felt that unfathomable distance on my very body. On my very soul.
It was a sudden and inexplicable angst. Like when people suddenly develop a fear of flying. It hit me hard and it hurt. I felt it at the very core of my cunt, darling. It throbbed, I swear to you. It longed for your cock. It longed so much it was a kind of dull pain. My nipples and breasts longed for your strong hands. My tongue ached to feel your cock sliding back and forth across its burred surface.
At this very moment of writing this you are roughly 640 km away from me. Your cock is 640 km away from my cunt. I long for your cock but this little distance is soothing. Knowing you are an hour away by plane. That you are in a neighbouring country. It all helps. If you flew to Tokyo or New York today I would go quite mad. That time you were vacationing with your family in Ile Rousse and I was with mine in Calvi (a shocking coincidence!) was the closest we've ever been without touching.
Only a little sliver of train tracks or a narrow coastal road between us.
It's all very odd, I know. A secret. Now exposed. Does it weaken me? Does it make me vulnerable within the frame of this affair? I do not know. I do not wish to contemplate the answer. But there you have it.
I seem to have digressed something horrible. You wrote about how two people who share their stories become one. Indeed. The thought of this affair without words, without urgent demands to be fucked or soft, pleading moans that precede a dreamy morning orgasm is a foreign one.
Although it would exist I am sure. The stories that eyes can tell are powerful. But I crave our stories and words.
I'm in quite a state. 640 km. I can almost taste you at that distance. I can almost reach out and wrap my tiny fingers around your cock, trying, as ever, to squeeze it tight and make my fingertips touch around your girth. Pulling hard on it, feeling your hips start to thrust towards me. I can taste you right now. I'm so sure of it. That fingerprint flavour of your cock and your balls. I am quite sure that if you masturbated right now I could catch your sexy cum in my mouth. Up over the Alps and onto my tongue. The heat of your cum creating a tiny trail of cloud through the frozen alpine air.
I want you in my mouth. Right now. That is the desire this minute. It varies. Other times I want you inside me. Buried deep and unmoving with only throbbing in our groins. Often when hungover after a good party I want you in my ass. Rough and merciless. I want it so much I must fuck my cunt with my fingers while holding that black butt plug you bought us in my ass. My hips confused as to what to do: they fuck forward against my fingers but also backwards onto the buttplug. That sweet, desperate confusion is wonderfully frustrating and the resulting orgasm is powerful as a rule.
Sometimes I want you deep inside not my cunt but another. I want to see your thick cock fucking the cunt of one our Pretty Young Things we gather up at parties. I want to sit firmly on her face, my cunt lips spread open on her mouth, her tongue flicking, eager to please, while you fuck her hard and steady. And our lust-filled eyes are on each others. Our tongues panting as we kiss. I want to see you pull out and spray your cum on her bare cunt. And then I wish to bend over, my cunt still on her mouth, and suck and lick up all your cum on her cunt, giving her an orgasm in the process while you watch.
I want so many things. Often and always. All of them involve your cock.
You have told me what you remember. What you think about when we're apart. Tell me what YOU want.
We scribbled geometrical figures on a serviette in a café in the early days of this affair. Do you remember? A circle first. Then we decided how to divide it up into wedges. We agreed that our regular family lives should occupy 50% of the circle. You said that our work should fill 25%.
Which leaves 25% for this affair. A considerable number but not a majority. And that wedge of course fluctuates. Sometimes less but also sometimes dangerously close to more.
What strength is required of us, darling. What resolution. What steady hands.
Affairs are curious creatures. Violent swinging emotional rollercoasters. Normality reigns - family, work, friends. And yet there is this velvety black hole of desire that hovers ominously on the edge of the universe's sphere. Pulsing constantly but sometimes pulsing strong and dangerous, threatening to suck one in. Threatening to consume us - mere frail satellites orbiting around The planet Normalcy.
A vast, velvet cunt of a black hole of passion.