The Henry Letters Pt. 03

Dear Alisha,

Sending you greetings! I hope you don't mind me sending you another message before you had an opportunity to reply to my previous one. If there is any shred of anxiety or sense of obligation to reply to my correspondence in what could pass for a timely manner... Well, I want you to dash that idle, invasive, unwelcome thought out of your mind right this instant!

Particularly when it comes to messages like these, it's fitting that we only write when the moment and the mood come upon us. For me, it happens more frequently during idle times. Maybe it does for you as well. Should one of us not have the time or energy to spare then, well there's no need to feel rushed or indebted. Personally I find that this time of year affords me much in the way of rest, relaxation, and rejuvenation. It's my hope that these messages impart, in at least some small way, a measure of that same rest, relaxation, and rejuvenation unto you by your sampling of it. Not to say that I can presume that it certainly possesses such power to do so, but... Oh, well I hope you understand my intent. I don't wish you to feel any such obligation to reply promptly and-or with any such length. There's no timetable I see, and I know of no minimum word count.

With that said, though I felt it important to mention, should you not mind of course, that I'd like to move on to the substantive -- and hopefully more pleasurable - content of this message. It has to do with all that rest, relaxation, and rejuvenation I'd mentioned earlier.

The summer seems to be in full swing at the moment, doesn't it? At least where I am, there are pleasant temperatures that enable me to roast potatoes simply by setting them out in the full sun on the stones of the patio for a few moments. Maybe you enjoy this sort of weather, as well.

I spend a great deal of time swimming during this time of year. The pool is on the larger side, and has a gently-sloping shallow end that gradually gives way to a deeper third, so I can also take full advantage of the diving board. It's a wonderful time of year and I enjoy the sport. It adds a little spice and variety to my days: still slow-paced and leisurely.

All this talk of leisure and good times reminds me of the story Mason told me of the most recent time he had a chance to visit you in person. Before settling in and watching some videos with silly little cars racing down a silly little track or something, you two had a chance to enjoy a dinner out on the back porch.

He highly-complimented your apple crisp, and marveled about how you made it seem so easy to prepare such a delicious dish. You busied yourself with the apples and other parts of the recipe, while he dealt with the stir-fried vegetables. The sun was on full descent, and amber light filled the sky, dwindling, but still rich.

I wonder how things would have gone for you, had I been there instead of Mason?

Now is the point where I shall let my imagination take the reins, and I would suggest (if I may be so presumptuous) that you pause here until such a time as you can find a private moment.

Imagine you are in the kitchen, standing near the sink, prepping the apple crisp. I've just finished with the stir-fry, and am setting them off the hot burner. I make a gentle note that the main course is done, and slide near you to observe your work. I ask if it's all right to place a hand on your shoulder as you do the work, and you warmly agree.

You've busied yourself with mixing some oats, sugar, and spices in a bowl, and then notice one warm hand on your shoulder has turned to two. I gently knead your muscles, and tension melts away. You release an audible sigh, which only serves as encouragement for me to continue. My fingers run themselves confidently along your neck, and in response you slowly tilt your head from one side to the next.

"One more thing, sweetie," you say. I pause, my hands resting on your shoulders. "Can you please look up in that cabinet over there for some nutmeg? I need a few more sprinkles of it."

"Certainly," I reply, then cross the kitchen and search within the cabinet you had pointed out. Even while my hands are absent, the tension of the day still melts. More interestingly, other feelings begin to take their place, bubbling up to the surface from somewhere deep within you. You glance over at me quickly, before I return and place the small canister on the counter.

"Thank you, sweetie!" you purr.

My hands return to your shoulders, but they seem to feel different. "You're welcome," I reply.

As you open the spice container, my hands more confidently knead and massage, the thumbs tracing up and down your spine while my hands are still hooked over your shoulders. The release of tension causes your body to bow and involuntarily shiver just the tiniest bit. Then you feel me lean up against you from behind, steadying you.

"Whoa, whoa," I say with a smile. "I gotcha." I shuffle a step closer to you, leaning up against your body for a moment. Our hips bump together for an instant, and we both chuckle, diffusing some of the rising tension.

You gradually lean back into me once again, still attempting to finish your task with the spices, but the dessert dish is somehow slipping away from your mind. I don't seem to notice, having pressed my hips up against you more deliberately now. My hands now run along your back, and my fingertips press into the muscles of your back.

You arch your back slightly, pressing your behind into my groin. There's an unmistakable stiffness pressing your buttocks now, and you realize that my attempts at arousing you are deliberate. You set down the spice canister, and rest both your palms on the countertop. Your breaths are deep now, and you dip your head forward slightly. Your pelvis is now meeting mine, and you feel a gentle rocking back and forth with my hips.

With a gentle firmness, my hands snake slowly around your torso to cup your perfect breasts. The fingertips brushing your stiff nipples are mild electric taps on your most sensitive parts. You gasp a breath as I begin massaging in earnest, paying special attention to your erect nipples and playing them back and forth. With a few resolute pinches, you grunt and bite your lip, eyes, closed, and press your pelvis even more resolutely back into me.

My hands pause only long enough to un-tuck your shirt from within your overalls. Finally, my hands touch the skin of your torso, quickly finding purchase once again on your naked, perfect breasts. The hardness of my sex pressing into your behind can no longer be denied, and we're no longer here just to make dinner. Your breaths shorten with every stroke, every squeeze of your soft breasts and stiff nipples.

With another sigh, your hands quickly unfasten your overalls, and I let them slide down your body. I take that moment to use one hand to unbuckle my belt, while the other still massages your breast. With a clink and a clatter, my pants drop and pool about my ankles, and now my hardness presses against you once more, now only our undergarments separating my rigid cock from touching your soft skin.

My second hand returns to your body, sliding down your torso instead of teasing your breast, to brush along your belly and down to your sex. The fabric of your panties is warm and damp, as you've been so electrified by the experience. You spread your legs, and now I run my fingers along your mons, pressing firmly when I reach the steaming hot junction between your thighs. My cock presses between your buttocks, a hand massages your breast and teases a nipple, and now my other hand gently frigs you. Your moist labia begin yielding to the pressure, and reflexively you take one of your own hands to reach back and stroke my cock through my underwear. It's pointing upward, having been coursing between your asscheeks, and now your palm runs along its length. Excited by the feeling, I groan and press fingertips into your vagina in response.

Emboldened, you snake your fingers into the waistband of my boxers, and my raging, firm member springs free. I release your breast for a moment to work my boxers down my legs, and you begin working your gripped hand along the length of my cock. I gasp in pleasure from your ministrations, and once I gather my wits, I begin sliding your panties down to the floor.

You release my cock for only an instant, and I am leaned up against you again, my stiff penis now pressed between your thighs. I can feel your yielding wetness along the top edge, and with my hands on your hips I begin to work it back and forth.

You're now resting on your elbows and forearms, presenting your flower to me. A wet, smacking sound emanates from where our organs meet. To ease my entry into you, one hand holds firm to your hip, while the other gently raises your other thigh. I can feel my cock -- now slick with your juices, urging for entry into you with every pass.

With a rasping breath, your hand reaches down between your legs. With a languid, slow push, your fingers guide my eager rod into your slickened vulva. We're both gasping aloud now, so intense is the feeling of our sexes meeting. You feel the pulsing of my eager cock as I sluice into you with ease. "Oh yes, oh yes..." you intone. I persist with a few more tentative thrusts, and you ease the angle of my entry.

Now comfortable and in sync, our bodies rhythmically ease back and forth. My cock repeatedly plows into your fantastic vagina as you and I create a three-legged, moving statue that emanates pure pleasure. Somehow, my one hand has once again moved from your hip up to your breast, and I eagerly massage and squeeze. Holding you closer as we fuck, my one hand manages to paw both of your breasts while the other securely holds your leg off to one side.

Our combined juices now stream down our legs in occasional rivulets of desire. The air is filled with our sighs, our groans, and the wet meeting of our most sacred parts. The tempo builds. My one hand now grasps your breast and holds firm, a taut nipple pinched between thumb and forefinger. I tug lightly with each thrust into your womb, my rigid prick now a frenzied rod prodding you deeply and stimulating your most sensitive regions.

Your groans transform into a breathy mewling, so incited are you by your desires and the approaching orgasm. Leaning on one arm only, you reach a hand down to frig yourself, batting and massaging your clitoris. Occasionally, your fingertips brush against my cock and I nearly shout, "Oh! Yes! Yes!" Upon my deeper thrusts, your fingertips touch my scrotum as my cock buries itself to the hilt in your sex. My response is to gasp loudly, squeezing and tugging your nipple with abandon.

We cum thunderously. My gushing member plies your labia even further apart, and your fingers curve inward to practically vibrate against your clit. I explode inside you, we emit a chorus of groans as your own orgasm overtakes you. Our combined juices well up inside your opening, to slowly seep between your lips, down my swollen cock and balls, and finally down our legs.

I ease your upward leg back down to the floor, eventually separating from you. My hands return to your shoulders as we both descend back to Earth.

Somehow, we find a way to return to the dinner task at hand, although the stir-fry is now cold. Somehow, we don't seem to mind at all.

Thank you for reading, Alisha. I am most certain I shall write to you once again, unless you reply with a request to the contrary. I will continue to hold our correspondence in the utmost possible confidence. Stay well.

Warmly,

Henry