The Letter

Every day he’d already been gone felt like a week … and those weeks were stretching into something resembling real time now. Today, though, was different. Today, when she’d returned from work hot, tired, lonely, and frustrated, there had been a letter addressed to her in his inimitable bold handwriting. A letter. He’d taken the time from his service project to write to her!

Kicking off her heels, she flexed her feet, groaning from the sheer relief of foot freedom, then made short work of her suit. Slipping into a shirt he’d left behind, she padded into the kitchen for a glass of wine, then out onto the back porch, letter in hand. His first sentences brought apprehension, but that faded quickly.

Hey you,

I should be better at writing than I am. I know that you love to read, and you’ve told me I don’t know how many times that poetry is supposedly the language of love, but I doubt that whatever I could come up with would make you feel anything more than pity at my lack of skill with words. 

Her lips quirked up at the corners. Funny guy. She fought off a quick pang of longing for his company, reminding herself for the umpteenth time that what he was doing was important – she could wait.

I am currently staying in a small, dirt floor bungalow with four workmates. Describing our circumstances would just depress you, so I won’t; suffice it to say that as humble as our surroundings are, they are far better than those of the villagers around us. We are grateful. I seem to be the closest thing to the Pied Piper of Hamelin that the village has seen. The village children seem to enjoy following me around. I’ve taken up whittling! I can carve a reasonably respectable dog, believe it or not. I give these to the kids. They have little enough to call their own.

Her eyes prickled. Must be the allergens – it was getting to be that time of year. He was such a lovely man. She cleared her throat and sniffled.

You would laugh. The house is surrounded by a flock of complacent chickens and one very vigilant and belligerent rooster who attacks us whenever we venture near the door. He reminds me a bit of you when I’ve slacked off and haven’t done something to your liking.

Her laugh came out more like a sob. That rotten, wretched, lovely man!

I miss you. While we’re building, it feels like it’s about 180 degrees here. OK, I exaggerate. Maybe only 120. But at night, I miss the warmth of your body cuddled against mine. I reach for the soft curves of your breasts, but they’re not there. I have waking fantasies, seeing you at a stall in the market, watching as you disappear quickly around a corner, always just that few steps further in front of me than I can manage to get to timely.

I’m here! RIGHT here! And I miss you. The lump in her throat was growing.

Will I tell you one of my fantasies? Water is scarce. You are not here. Is it weird that my most common fantasy involves you and a shower?

Laughter bubbled up in her throat, then anticipation silenced her. A fantasy? Lead on, MacDuff!

I climb into the shower stall. The water is lukewarm, which is perfect just now because I’m overheated. I turn my face up to the cascading water, closing my eyes and standing still, quiet, contemplative – the way I get when I’m not singing at the top of my lungs and annoying the hell out of you. I sense you before I feel you – a quiet susurration in the room as you slip in and shrug out of your clothing, then the sound of the shower door first opening, then closing again.

Ooooh!  Susurration! She was surprised at his use of the term. Perhaps he was more poetic than he realized. She made a mental note to tease him about it when he returned, although she suspected she wouldn’t remember.

You wrap your arms around me. I feel your breasts against my back, your chin against my shoulder blades.

You really are a short shit, ‘ya know? But you’re MY short shit.

I feel heat and imagine your pussy, close to my ass. I sense that you’re smiling – or maybe it’s just that I’ve seen that smile so often that thoughts of you conjure it.

I grab the soap and slide it into your hand. You take the hint – you really are a very clever and intuitive woman…. My eyes still closed, I feel heaven as your soapy hands slide across my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. And then bliss, as you move further south. My entire body goes on alert when I feel your hands on my lower abdomen, your fingertips invading my pubes, approaching my now erect cock. But you don’t do as I expect. Your hands move, leaving me feeling at loss. And then they’re back – rubbing my shoulders, my sides, my ass…. I draw in a sharp breath when your fingers slide down the valley between my cheeks. You kneel behind me and reach between my legs, diligently soaping my ballsac while your fingers slip and slide and … WHOA there, woman!

I giggle, remembering his reaction the first time I’d played in that specific way. The results of that exploration had been mind-blowing. Mmmmm! Damn. This letter was beginning to make me horny.

I feel you as you rise to your feet. My cock aches – you haven’t taken pity on me. I know that you will – you’re essentially a compassionate woman

Ahem. Essentially?

when you really put your mind to it.  (See? I can state that.  I’m really far away and you can’t catch me to punish me right now!) Instead, you move around, pushing me from under the water stream but compensating by wrapping your arms around my neck and pulling my head down for a kiss. You taste like peppermint and zinfandel. Weird, but all you. And then, you do as I’ve been hoping you would. You kiss your way down my body to my aching cock. I think I nearly die every time you wrap your lips around me – it really does feel that good. Heaven is your lips, your mouth. I’m probably, sort of, almost certainly going to hell for that thought. If there is a hell, that is, above and beyond these projects that keep taking me away from you.

By this point, you’ve got me really excited. I’m afraid that I’m going to embarrass myself, just like an inexperienced teenager, if I can’t get myself into you. Quickly. It doesn’t seem right, though, to just brace you up against the tiles and take you. I mean, so much for finesse, right? EVEN though I’ve been gone for several months now there’s just no excuse for being that selfish. And so I pull you up against my body, your back to my chest, my erection nuzzling between your slightly opened thighs. I soap up my hands and touch YOU. Everywhere. I nuzzle your neck while my busy, busy hands slide across your soft shoulders, down your (ticklish!) sides, coming to rest in that mysterious and appealing vee at the nexus of your thighs. While I slowly slide my cock against your cleft, I tease your hooded clit out with my fingertips.

I stop reading, momentarily surprised. When had I slid my hand into my panties?

Turning you, I brace you against the tiles and slide down, parting your labia. You run your fingers through my hair as I lean in and latch my lips around your swollen clit. I am gratified each time you quiver. The sound of your moans is music to my ears. You are my goddess. I grasp the lovely curves of your ass in my hands and open you, drinking you when you break on me and cry out. And finally, finally, when your need for me is such that you reach down and insistently tug me up to you, I turn you to face the wall, bend you over slightly, and slide home. It doesn’t take long. I am so excited that after a few slow strokes, I do the teenaged boy thing and climax.  I stand there shaking, my hands wrapped around your hips. You turn your head and grin at me. We both laugh.

I stop reading. I’m close to the end anyway. My body is screaming for a bit of attention. I close my eyes, imagine his fingers and lips on me, his cock in me. Climax comes quickly.

Still shaking, I finish reading.

This is my most frequent fantasy. But what I really want you to know is that what I miss is the woman. I miss you. You are my substance. There will always be work, but you are the person that makes any place I stay my home. Your many kindnesses. Your smile. Your scent. Your laughter. These things stay with me. These things are my true north.

As we both know, I can’t always be there for you. But I will be back soon.

I am coming home, love.

Sniffling again, I realize that I’m crying. He’s given me a gift more precious than rubies. I close my eyes, turning my face toward the setting sun. I imagine his arms around me – with so much yearning that after a few moments I think that I actually feel him.

“Hey there, short shit.”

Smiling, I turn my head and kiss his jaw.

            “Welcome home, stranger. Need a shower?”

Props:  

• Noctis - Belle Rouge Chaise:  Created by Yelena Istmal
• HSF Erotics - "Dripping Wet" Sex Shower: Created by Harpo Marabana