Sappho and Catullus Ch. 01

LETTERS TO MAKE YOU COME: 1

GASPING OVER MY COFFEE

Two lovers, Matthew and Michelle, learn what it is like to turn each other on by writing letters to each other. They confess all their desires, tell their stories, real and imaginary, and invite each other to share their excitement and come for them. The letters are foreplay for them, anticipatory sex, too. The letters are explicit, with a slow burn.

In the first letter, Michelle reports on a chance encounter.

Beautiful man!

I feel a bit embarrassed to tell you about what's just happened to me, but if anyone can appreciate it and enter into it fully, you'r that person. In fact, if you can think with me, feel with me, see with my eyes, well . . . maybe it'll turn you on, and next time we meet, you'll want me even more. But for now, I just want to relive it. Just thinking of you reading these lines and being stirred by them is enough of a turn-on (here I go again, that familiar ache down below).

You know how I often sit for hours at the coffee shop at the corner of the street, down at the bottom of the hill? I was there this afternoon, reading my novel and looking up from time to time at the people as they came in and out. Some sat down, sipped their coffee and ordered a pastry. Others just bought what they needed at the counter. Most of them I know by sight. But then, just as I was raising my cup to my lips, a woman walked in who made me splutter. I had never seen her before, nor anyone quite like her. I suppose she was about forty, give or take a year or two, with that assurance in her upright bearing and her expression that speaks of self-containment and sexual confidence. Quite tall, slim, elegantly but not elaborately dressed in a glossy green blouse, trim grey skirt and highly polished black shoes, with ginger hair and a matching expression.

You would have licked your lips, you lucky bastard, but I just grounded my coffee cup.

When she sat down and drew a copy of Cosmopolitan across the table to browse, I had a chance to study her, only a couple of tables away. I pretended to be reading, but the more I looked, the more my gaze was fixed on her. There was nothing provocative about her dress or her posture, though she was beautifully proportioned and poised. I was not drawn to her by any sexual interest on my part. Still -- and I hope this doesn't upset you, or make you feel betrayed -- I could feel a little warmth stealing into me. I shifted slightly in my chair. Her skirt reached just below the knee. She might have been wearing tights, but perhaps it was just that her legs were evenly tanned, her ankles graceful. There was a hint of fulness beneath her blouse: I looked as hard as I dared without giving myself away, to see if I could detect a shape or a pattern of lace showing through. There was nothing; or perhaps -- but it must have been my imagination.

I hope your imagination is beginning to flare up, too. Could you, thinking of her, also feel a rising interest in your groin? You might think it is only men who peek down women's fronts or hope they will stand with the light behind them for a figure in silhouette, but let me tell you, we also take an interest! It's not envy; it's just -- well, women's bodies are interesting, mysterious. We're curious. Or at least, I am. I have nothing to be envious about, as you know. Every busty inch of me is yours, and the more they are yours, the more they are mine.

And then I started wondering about the rest of her. Undressing her with my eyes? You could say so. But it was as if I wanted her rather to undress me. My body was getting ready for her gaze. How could I get her to look at me? She seemed absorbed in her magazine, her chin propped up on one hand while she slowly turned the pages with the other. Why should she look at me? I wasn't going to draw attention to myself, although I was conscious that a little cleavage was showing at my V-neck and that my jeans hugged me tight. There was life down there, desire growing in intensity. I fingered the chain around my neck, lightly brushing the swell of my breasts as I did so.

Then she did look at me. Her magazine was open at a lingerie advertisement. She stopped paging. The model seemed to be sharing a secret just for the two us. I was wearing black under my top, and black under my jeans, with enough lace to make me interesting, too. I willed her to see through my clothes. She leaned forward just enough for the points of her breasts to make tiny dents in the panels of her blouse. I had to cross my legs and shove my hands between them to calm my excitement. At the same moment, as if by a shared impulse, she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs the other way to let her skirt ride up on her thigh.

That's all there was. But I was super-conscious of her body and my body, my breasts nestling in my bra, my panties still crisp and dry but only just. I was on the verge of wetness. I savoured every millimetre, the lace feathering my bush, my pussy quiet and comfortable but on fire. A minute later and she was gone. As she left, she brushed against me. Was it deliberate? I leaned against her as she passed. At that slight touching of our bodies, I was ignited.

So now I'm writing to you, my love. You can be sure I got home as quickly as I could. My jeans came off and I lay back, trying to remember every detail and imagine the rest, taking my time. I didn't want to sleep with her, I persuaded myself (how we delude ourselves!), but she had turned me on. When my fingers touched my underwear, I thought of them pressing gently on the smooth fabric over her clit. Then I thought of my fingers as hers, touching me, and my movement became more urgent. Still, I disciplined myself to trace the lacy edging slowly, going before, behind, besides, luxuriating in the texture as my desire mounted.

Finally I took the plunge, diving through the tangle of hair, finding my lips and beginning to play. A dilemma. What do I think of when I pleasure myself? Would I be unfaithful to you if I went on thinking of her and visualising her? Or could my arousal now turn to your image, your sleek shoulders, your flat tummy, your beautiful penis getting thicker and starting to rise? How I would lightly stroke you into hardness, caress the head, coax out the pre-cum. But today -- yes, I do want to sleep with her. If only I had the nerve to approach her, or if only she wanted to seduce me. Was this just to be a fantasy? Or would I go out and get what I want?

Excitement took over from these confusing thoughts. My finger was fingering my clit but my mind was unbuttoning her blouse. Her breasts were as yummy as I had guessed, in a superbly sculpted white bra with a lace pattern in relief. Expertly I manoeuvred her tits out of the cups; lovely to look at as that bra was, her warm full breasts were even more delicious to hold. I had to slow down. My finger teased my aching flesh, needing no pressure at all. The response intensified. A little more pressure. I weighed her in my palms. A little more. I traced up to her nipple. Oh, the sweetness of those tiny raised bumps and the firmness, the boldness of their jutting core. Harder and deeper. Into my cunt, two fingers pulsing.

And when it was all over I enjoyed a luxurious satisfaction. The tips of my fngers wandered languidly over my contented breasts, up to the swelling cleavage, in between in the valley, up and across the peaks, loving and feeling loved.

What is orgasm like for you? When I come, a kind of wholeness washes over me. All that I am surges into that concentrated moment. I don't black out, but I go to places I can never otherwise find. It's as if all the gaps are filled, all the emptiness melts away. For as long as the moment lasts -- and this one seemed to go on forever -- I'm no longer of this world. I'm floating above it. People often call upon God when they are about to climax (or at least they call out his name!), whether it is in desperation or in craven lust. But I call upon God because I have come home. I know what it means to be immortal.

Take me there, my love. If my story is good foreplay, I'm glad. If you can't wait, take yourself in hand. Tell me all about it. I want to give myself to you, mind, soul and body. I want to be your mind when you feel yourself. I give you my desire for my sexy new woman. Fuck her now, if you want. Fuck me, over and over, everywhere and always.

Until then,

Michelle.

Next time: Matthew's unexpected, unforgettable first MILF.