Love Letter

This is a love letter. You are away for a much-needed rest, and I am (sighhhh) left to my own devices. I'm thinking way too much and gasping far too little with ached-for orgasmic paroxysms. The ones only you can give me. The ones with you that transport me whenever we're together. And while I know you're overworked and should be taking far more time off than you are right now, I miss you.

I miss you in a poetic way. I put your picture up on my computer screen and touch my fingers to it, stroking downwards as if I knew you had suddenly stopped to touch your face, knowing they were my fingertips. I feel almost guilty, my heart aching with longing for you. I find I want to sneak looks at your image without you knowing it. But I know you. I know me. I know us. And I know you sense me. You know exactly how I'm feeling right now. I reread your poems, snippets and stanzas you've written extemporaneously for me. Watching each line as it appears, drinking in the sentiments spoken and pregnantly not verbalized. Reading each line aloud, whispered, hearing your deep rumbling baritone just over my own voice. Closing my eyes, hands attempting to fully cover my aching breasts as if I were in your arms.

I miss you with a depth that startles me. My life, as harried and happy and way too full as it is, seems strangely empty. I feel poignancy, a chasm of feeling somewhere deep. You reside in the place you have always known how to delve mischievously into, when it comes to me. My thighs have somehow parted without my knowledge as I think of you biting my shoulder just hard enough to hold me perfectly still while your massive hands coax me into a wetness that smooshes and squishes with wanton promise. Such is the state you drive me to with a word, a touch or, apparently, a thought.

I miss you in an elemental way. Our love is earthy, poetic, demanding, raw. We scale the range of many emotional octaves. One moment, we can be arguing about politics until I wonder what planet you could possibly have just arrived from. Then, in conciliatory murmurs, we become tender and exquisitely loving, expressing as much in our silences as we do with words and touches. In the blink of an eye, embroiled in a primal tryst that takes my breath away for days every time I remember...relish...savor....

I miss your eroticism. No one has ever known how to make me cum over and over again the way you can. Until I can take no more and must beg you, finally, to cum with me. The feel of your shaft entering me, filling me, spreading my lips wider with each raging thrust is more than I can bear. Hearing you groan and snuffle like the wild thing you are. Hands on my hips from behind to grind deeper and deeper into my pussy, your scent and presence pushing me over the edge to gush copiously over your shaft.

I love it most when you push my thighs apart, pulling my ankles over your shoulders. Watching you on your knees, fucking me harder and harder as I struggle to grip you ever tighter with my pussy muscles, the need to push my hips harder still to meet yours, hips slapping, the scent of our sex raw, our thrashing feeling like a scream sounds. Only you know how to make me swoon with each thrust. Only you have that animal primality that makes me wet for you within seconds. And that sweet, hot urgency never seems to fade over time or through difficulties. I am moth to your flame, I am the answer to your call, and I am here to serve your needs because you feel the same way about me.

Shhhhhhh, my bard. From wherever you are, taking respite from the world's demands and clamoring be still, utterly unmoving. Imagine me, my mouth against your mouth, reciting erotic poetry. Feel my tongue between syllables, soft licks. You know well the poem that drives me wild. It's the poem I love to whisper to you with breathy, short gasps interspersed by low moans. Helen Chasin's, "The Word 'Plum'." Ah, yes, you breathe. That one. My tongue nips your lower lip as I whisper,

"...taut skin

pierced, bitten, provoked into

juice, and tart flesh..."

and you respond, your thick fingers slipping between the hot, wet folds of my labia. My mouth traces to your nipple, biting and provoking your response as I slowly breathe my favorite love-word. Each syllable strums electrically, zinging through your nerve endings: "palpable." My love, whisper it now, while you read this, "palpable." Like a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Yours and mine.

Ah, as I write, I pause, my eyes glazing, energy focused on the tight, thick tingling between my thighs. The fingers of one hand slip down, thighs opening of their own accord, spreading my lips open with my index and ring fingers, my middle finger stroking up and down my slit, pulling my fingers up to expose my clit. Mmmmm, my beloved, I am so wet for you. I rub, imagining that you're gazing with hunger at the core of my pussy, your tongue raking and flicking over my clit, and I mooaaannnnnnnn long. As if I could will you here through sheer need. Rubbing faster and faster, concentrating on my clit, I bring myself just to the point of orgasm before stopping. I will not cum, yet. I want you to read this when you return. And stroke your shaft slowly while you wait for me to find you. Ahhh. I love your virility. It permeates me.

My soul misses yours, even as I know we're never truly apart. No man can evoke in me the feelings, the depth of being, the sheer longing and need the way you can. I love you. I love you for exactly who you are, simply because it IS the way you are. I don't want to change you, and I don't need you to change. You fulfill me. In every way. That's the kind of man you are. You've awaken in me the woman I always knew was there, but other men were too busy needing me to be strong for them. You are the only man who has ever demanded my all. The only man I've ever whispered, "I need you" to, because I know you need me to need you. With you, I can be soft. And in that softness for you, I have found a strength I've never known. I can be.

Gaze down, baby, at your hand stroking your shaft. With your other hand, roll and massage your head. Precum glistens, now. Rub it into your skin. Yes. Like that. You know that your hands are my mouth, me kneeling before you in total submission, fucking you with my mouth, sliding down to the base of your shaft, sucking hard while I drag my red lipsticked mouth upwards. Your hips guiding my rhythm. Pausing before slipping my mouth down again, fingers circled around your base. Holding very still, your cock filling my mouth. And moaning.

Long.

Low.

Feral.......Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Moaning...until you feel the reverberation clear down to your toes, making them curl tightly. Stroke a little harder, beloved, a little faster. Ah, but don't cum. Not yet. And I won't either. Not until we can cum together, feel the rolling and rush of our orgasms together.

I struggled for days, you know, wanting to tell you how much I miss you, and how I'm feeling. I stared at this computer screen, silent, empty, the way I feel deep inside until you're here, with me, again. How to begin? What words could I possibly start with to describe all the ways I miss you, need you, long for you--love you? And then I heard it, like a whisper at my throat: This is a love letter. -for Animal