The Henry Letters Pt. 02

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

After Alisha presented her consent to me in an email, I promptly typed this message, and sent it her way. I'd hoped she would say yes, as I had some ideas bouncing around in my head and frankly I wanted to keep flirting with her and helping her get off. So although we never actually had sex with one another, this series of letters provided she and me with a unique opportunity to share our lewd ideas with one another. I had a blast writing these for her, and it seems like she enjoyed them quite a bit, as well.

Enjoy!!!

M.A.J.

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Dear Alisha,

I hope this message finds you very well. Thanks for your prompt, gracious, and enticing response. I must confess I chuckled a bit in surprise at learning about your living arrangement and where your letters may end up. Mason shared with me your request to communicate via email until further notice, and I'm certain I can oblige.

Speaking of obliging, to learn that my first letter and future correspondence is welcome was especially exciting news. Things are slow and boring where I am these days, so the prospect of writing and sharing between us is a sure way to expend some of my pent up energies.

From your admission, and if you'll pardon my saying so, it sounds as if you have some pent up energies of your own. It sounds as if it might be occasionally frustrating to not be able to spare a moment to yourself, in private, whenever you wish. Still I understand work, schedules, and obligations. I've learned and I'm sure you're aware that caring for family members and those special to you is of utmost importance. In my experience, it often makes the moments when I do indulge in my fantasies that much more intense. I'm thinking of it right now, as I type this message for you.

It's at this point I wish to speak plainly and frankly. You are welcome to ignore this message until such a time as it's appropriate for you to read it during a private moment. I also recall mentioning you might envision our mutual friend regarding our correspondence and although I suspect he'd be quite flustered at the knowing of it, since we're indulging our imaginations freely and exclusively: what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

I wonder what it's like when you pleasure yourself. I can imagine you stealing away for a moment in your room, closing your door quietly, barely making it across the room to your bed before you begin brushing a hand first gently, then more firmly, between your legs and perhaps across your breasts. If you happen to not wear a bra: how do your nipples feel as the fabric of your shirt stimulates them? You imagine they're the hands - and the lips - of your lover, guiding you towards familiar pleasures and hopefully a fitful climax.

It's like that when I touch myself, too. Where I live, I share some of the house with others. Fortunately they respect my privacy, and this is vital, especially at times like these. I'm already stiff, thinking of you pressing a hand over your belly, past the waistband of your panties. I'm bristling with insistent lust, so I simply must grab my stiff member and take matters into my own hands. It throbs as I grip it. I lightly tug at my cock, a finger and thumb teasing the rim of the head, sending little jolts through my groin to warm the rest of my body. I lay back comfortably on the bed, my legs spread-eagle, my hands eager. Soon I have shimmied out of my pants and underwear, and I begin play in earnest.

Both of my hands are in action now. One hand is teasing my cock head, again the finger and thumb rub along the rim. The other hand switches back and forth to massage my scrotum or grip the base of my stiffening cock. At times, both hands move along my shaft, teasing me with excruciating pleasures towards an orgasm.

In my mind's eye, I see you too have begun to use both hands. Your labia are moist and pliant, and your delicate fingers trace along the edges. A thumb gently rubs over your budding clit. Soon, a finger ventures within your folds. You imagine my mouth, my fingers, and eventually my throbbing, stiff penis inside of you. Your wetness is palpable, as if I had slavered my saliva all over your eager pussy.

That's exactly what I would do, you know. Were I between your legs right now, I would be taking long, wet licks along your labia, paying extra attention to the nub of your clitoris. My lips would suckle it, and the tip of my tongue would bat it lightly, left and right, up and down, bringing your ever closer to climax.

I imagine this as I feverishly, shamelessly beat off: massaging my cock with one hand, rubbing my balls and taint with the other. My ass cheeks clench reflexively and the skin of my scrotum grows taut. Occasionally, I reflexively grunt in pleasure as my fingers touch those especially sensitive spots around the rim of my cock.

One hand cups my scrotum, the fingers curved around the testes and pressing just behind the sack. The other hand grips my stiff cock further down the shaft, and pumps with determination. My imagination insinuates my hands into this vision of me knelt before you, your legs spread. One arm loops around one of your legs, a hand pulling the skin upwards and taut on your belly. The result is your protruding clit, now vulnerable to my oral assault. With my other hand, I press a finger, then two fingers, between your folds. My fingertips palpate the ridged roof of your vagina, and you begin to breathe in great rasping breaths as your orgasm overtakes you.

In my dreams, my face is drenched with the combination of my sweat and saliva, and your luscious quim. I lap up your fluids with feverish intensity. In the real world, my climax approaches. A hand feathers my cock head, lingering round that rigid mushroom tip, while the other grips and massages my scrotum. My plan is to coax as much cum as I can from my swollen, slicked genitals. With a gasp and a groan and an arching back, it happens. Visions of your quivering pussy, climaxing on my face, push me over the edge. My boiling semen jets across my belly in great gouts, and I gasp for breath. Still massaging my member as it relaxes its size and stiffness, I whip my head from side to side, wishing for some relief from this over-stimulation.

There I go again. The bed clothes are twisted round my feet. Perspiration is dewed upon my chest and legs. As I reach across the bed to firmly swab and towel-off myself, I wonder just how accurate I have been in my visions. Cunnilingus is a wonderful method of worship at the altar (so to speak), and in my experience women seem to appreciate my zealous nature and dedication. My imagination and memories of the times I've been fortunate enough to show a woman my appreciation in such a way never disappoint.

And I hope this message hasn't been a disappointment for you, Alisha. Should you have the time and inclination, please let me know if you enjoyed this, and would like more in the same vein. Frank discussion is encouraged and welcome. It's quite possible I have more ideas to share, and if it please you, I want to know what you like.

Warmly,

Henry