It seems you know me all too well! I have found myself in exactly the predicament you described. Is it ridiculous for a grown woman to be jumping at shadows so? But everything feels like it’s ending, and I can feel the ground rushing up toward me just as if I were falling. My head aches. My heart aches. My whole chest aches, at times, and I miss you.
I won’t break this quarantine my Daniil has instated, but being without you is torture! How is imagination supposed to make up for the warmth of your embrace? For your delicate fingers against my collar? The calming smell of your cigarettes? He tells me to stay at home, to rest and stay hydrated, and I do. I lay in bed all morning and think of you.
It feels strange, writing it to you like this. When was the last time we were together – truly together? I think of the weight of you in bed beside me, your hand trailing down my arm, and I get goosebumps. We thought we’d have all the time for another date, another kiss, another touch. Or at least, I did. You’re always so ahead of things. Did you know? And do you know, now, that I am lying in bed again, dizzy with the thought of you?
If I close my eyes, tilt my head back, stretch my back just right… I can almost feel you. Your fingers on my stomach, your kisses on my lips, and both trailing down. You could push aside my skirt and set your hand upon my thigh. And I know you like the way I taste against your tongue, but I want to taste you, too. You do everything for me, Yulia, and never ask for much in return. I want to return your kindness, reciprocate the love you show me. Let me undress you. Let me push your sweater away and kiss your breasts. I know you’re not as open as I am, but at least let me roll your tights down and press my lips to you. I’ll keep your leg supported by my shoulder, and you won’t have to worry for a thing!
Perhaps I shouldn’t make this letter so intimate. I don’t know if you would like to receive such a thing. These kinds of thoughts are better whispered in close quarters, over low-lit candles and bottles of twyrine. Then I could tell you all the things I want to do, the ways I want to hear you say my name.
When this Pest is over. I want to feel you, the sheets, and nothing else.
(FILL) Erotic letters (5/6)
My lovely and gentle Yulia,
It seems you know me all too well! I have found myself in exactly the predicament you described. Is it ridiculous for a grown woman to be jumping at shadows so? But everything feels like it’s ending, and I can feel the ground rushing up toward me just as if I were falling. My head aches. My heart aches. My whole chest aches, at times, and I miss you.
I won’t break this quarantine my Daniil has instated, but being without you is torture! How is imagination supposed to make up for the warmth of your embrace? For your delicate fingers against my collar? The calming smell of your cigarettes? He tells me to stay at home, to rest and stay hydrated, and I do. I lay in bed all morning and think of you.
It feels strange, writing it to you like this. When was the last time we were together – truly together? I think of the weight of you in bed beside me, your hand trailing down my arm, and I get goosebumps. We thought we’d have all the time for another date, another kiss, another touch. Or at least, I did. You’re always so ahead of things. Did you know? And do you know, now, that I am lying in bed again, dizzy with the thought of you?
If I close my eyes, tilt my head back, stretch my back just right… I can almost feel you. Your fingers on my stomach, your kisses on my lips, and both trailing down. You could push aside my skirt and set your hand upon my thigh. And I know you like the way I taste against your tongue, but I want to taste you, too. You do everything for me, Yulia, and never ask for much in return. I want to return your kindness, reciprocate the love you show me. Let me undress you. Let me push your sweater away and kiss your breasts. I know you’re not as open as I am, but at least let me roll your tights down and press my lips to you. I’ll keep your leg supported by my shoulder, and you won’t have to worry for a thing!
Perhaps I shouldn’t make this letter so intimate. I don’t know if you would like to receive such a thing. These kinds of thoughts are better whispered in close quarters, over low-lit candles and bottles of twyrine. Then I could tell you all the things I want to do, the ways I want to hear you say my name.
When this Pest is over. I want to feel you, the sheets, and nothing else.
All my love,
Eva