I read one of your stories last night, one of the ones that made it into a book. One you wrote about me, about us together. I read it with a vibrator between my legs, I was already needy and open. How I wished you were with me, so we could ‘dramatically read’ the story together *wink*.
I remember that night, and others before and after. Remember the first time, too, when I reveled in the things you knew, the things you could do to me, the sure, real, insatiable knowledge in your hands. Even though your words told me you weren’t sure, you didn’t know… you surely did, your body knew how to love me from the start. Your courage grew with experience, and I’ve loved every moment of that transformation.
Oh, how I remember that first time. My body welcomed you like an old friend, an angel, a savior, the wanton devil I’d been dreaming of, a sacred worshiper at my body’s temple. I know you were nervous, and there certainly was a lot we didn’t know about each other, but I remember joy, so much joy in discovering you and in being discovered by you. Even now, as the memory of it floods me, the thought of your hands on me and in me, spills over. I’m floating away on that flood.
Love and laughter and sanctuary. Our laughter as we surveyed the mess our lust made. The sanctuary of the hotel room as it became a world of its own. We had no need for the rest of the world. And we didn’t care what the rest of the world might need from us.
I read your story last night, you wrote about us, about loving me, about me loving you, about joy and hunger and satisfaction and love. I wonder if, when others read your story — our story — if they get even a shadow of the intensity that breaks over me when I read it. Your story, our story. About me. About us. Together. Sanctuary, lust, worship, love.
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