I can’t say I’m displeased that you think of me as such a gentleman, but wherever did you get the idea I’d be prudish? Are you sure that’s not projection, my dear? I’ve received letters of sexual intent from many past lovers. I can’t say all of them did something for me. The words are nice, of course; always good to know you leave an impact on the person you’re romancing, but I find it difficult to get off from words on paper.
You, on the other hand… I can imagine your face going bright with blush. Have you ever received such a missive? A little part of me hopes that you haven’t. I’d really like to be your first. It’s such a shame we couldn’t fuck before I had to leave Town. Sex isn’t everything, of course, but sex with you would be so nice. I used to listen to you dream when you slept in my bed, listen to your little grunts and imagine them coming harder, faster. Then you’d wake, and the outline of your cock would press against your trousers and I’d wonder what you dreamt of that you woke in such a state. I’d gotten myself jealous, thinking it was one of your barely-clothed steppe girls – but now, I wonder. Was it me you were dreaming of? Should I have given into reckless urge and woken you with my mouth around your cock? You’d look good with your eyes blown wide, mouth a little open, hand in my hair and bucking into my face.
I hope you’re touching yourself just reading about it. Sitting on that matt you call a bed in your workshop, fist around your length. Would you like to know all the ways I touch myself when I think about you? Because I do, Artemy. I think of you when I’m on my back in bed, tugging on myself. It never feels like enough, because it’s never you. And I’d prefer your hands over mine – on my chest, on my thighs, stroking me. I coat my fingers in oil and run them over my entrance, pretending yours are the fingers that open me.
Did you know I’d get on hands and knees for you? You should feel honored. Few men ever see that side of me. I don’t know that you’d like it. You’re too sentimental. You’d want to see my face when we’re “making love”. But just once, you should take me like this. You’ll slide in deeper with my hips angled down, body pleading for your cock. You can push my face into the mattress and fuck me ‘til you have me in tears, begging you to let me come. This is what I think of when I sink on my fingers: You, filling me, not even needing to touch my prick to make me dirty the sheets. And the neighbors must think I have you over, for I’ve cried out your name so many times this week, just pleasuring myself.
I should be back within the month, and then we can try out your bed together. You’ll want to do something sensible for a date, I suspect, but I beg you: please, no theatre. I think we’ve had more than enough for a while.
(FILL) Erotic letters (6/6)
Artemy,
I can’t say I’m displeased that you think of me as such a gentleman, but wherever did you get the idea I’d be prudish? Are you sure that’s not projection, my dear? I’ve received letters of sexual intent from many past lovers. I can’t say all of them did something for me. The words are nice, of course; always good to know you leave an impact on the person you’re romancing, but I find it difficult to get off from words on paper.
You, on the other hand… I can imagine your face going bright with blush. Have you ever received such a missive? A little part of me hopes that you haven’t. I’d really like to be your first. It’s such a shame we couldn’t fuck before I had to leave Town. Sex isn’t everything, of course, but sex with you would be so nice. I used to listen to you dream when you slept in my bed, listen to your little grunts and imagine them coming harder, faster. Then you’d wake, and the outline of your cock would press against your trousers and I’d wonder what you dreamt of that you woke in such a state. I’d gotten myself jealous, thinking it was one of your barely-clothed steppe girls – but now, I wonder. Was it me you were dreaming of? Should I have given into reckless urge and woken you with my mouth around your cock? You’d look good with your eyes blown wide, mouth a little open, hand in my hair and bucking into my face.
I hope you’re touching yourself just reading about it. Sitting on that matt you call a bed in your workshop, fist around your length. Would you like to know all the ways I touch myself when I think about you? Because I do, Artemy. I think of you when I’m on my back in bed, tugging on myself. It never feels like enough, because it’s never you. And I’d prefer your hands over mine – on my chest, on my thighs, stroking me. I coat my fingers in oil and run them over my entrance, pretending yours are the fingers that open me.
Did you know I’d get on hands and knees for you? You should feel honored. Few men ever see that side of me. I don’t know that you’d like it. You’re too sentimental. You’d want to see my face when we’re “making love”. But just once, you should take me like this. You’ll slide in deeper with my hips angled down, body pleading for your cock. You can push my face into the mattress and fuck me ‘til you have me in tears, begging you to let me come. This is what I think of when I sink on my fingers: You, filling me, not even needing to touch my prick to make me dirty the sheets. And the neighbors must think I have you over, for I’ve cried out your name so many times this week, just pleasuring myself.
I should be back within the month, and then we can try out your bed together. You’ll want to do something sensible for a date, I suspect, but I beg you: please, no theatre. I think we’ve had more than enough for a while.
Yours,
D. Dankovsky