I read one of your stories last night, one of the ones that made it into a book. Â One you wrote about me, about us together. Â I read it with a vibrator between my legs, I was already needy and open. Â 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. Â 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. Â 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. Â Your courage grew with experience, and I’ve loved every moment of that transformation.
Oh, how I remember that first time. Â My body welcomed you like an old friend, an angel, a savior, the wanton devil I’d been dreaming of, a sacredÂ worshiperÂ at my body’s temple. Â 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. Â Even now, as the memory of it floods me, the thought of your hands on me and in me, spills over. Â I’m floating away on that flood.
Love and laughter and sanctuary. Â Our laughter as we surveyed the mess our lust made. Â The sanctuary of the hotel room as it became a world of its own. Â We had no need for the rest of the world. Â 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. Â I wonder if, when others read your story — Â our story — if they get even a shadow of the intensity that breaks over me when I read it. Â Your story, our story. Â About me. Â About us. Â Together. Â Sanctuary, lust, worship, love.
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