My Dear Correspondent

My Dear Correspondent,

At first I thought I had nothing to write today. Last night was simply ghastly. The day was fine. It seems that spring has finally come after weeks of drenching rain, bringing clear skies and blossom-scented air. River and I had gone for a short walk through the warming countryside, our conversation naturally turning to our times together, and we made plans for the evening involving the conjunction of my mouth and her clitoris. She seems to be warming up to that particular pastime. I may guess why, but in this case the reasons are of small consequence, so long as the effect is agreeable. I sent her off with instructions to visualize her enjoyment, with my tongue commanding her ecstasy and providing her with many peaks of pleasure.

But did I not say the past night was ghastly? Yes, ghastly. Not the meeting of our disparate lips, fortunately. No, sadly that never commenced. Rather, I was incapacitated with, shall I say, bloat. It was as if I’d put on some large number of pounds around the middle. Being intimate in that condition was beyond imagining, despite my imagination being, as you know, quite good in that regard. The timing could not possibly have been more calamitous, given the rarity of occasions on which River consents to the indulgence my oral urges. Seldom have I found food and the commensurate eating to be particularly enjoyable, and now I must say that food and I have no fondness for each other. Horrid stuff.

But that’s not at all what I had in mind to tell you when I sat down today. My thoughts were rather of the next morning. This morning, that is. Another day of sunrises, and of birds calling, and of opportunities, variously created by us, thrust upon us, or simply waiting to be found by us. I’d woken to find my affliction had fortunately departed during the night, and I was feeling amorous. How could I not, upon wakening with the love of my life in the very bed with me? I drew her to me, and felt my manhood stirring at the touch of her warm, feminine skin against mine.

I hope you’ll excuse me for not resisting. In a rush of lust I pulled away our covers, revealing the veracity of my arousal, juxtaposed with the many soft, evocatively rounded aspects of River's body. My searching fingers found the wetness enfolded within her dark labia and I pushed my swollen member into her, feeling her return my advance and wriggle delightfully as she took me fully into her sweet honey pot.

River was non-stop wet this morning. We didn’t really have a whole lot of time, but when she rolled onto her back—her seal of approval—and smiled at me, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop. I just wanted to lift her ass off the bed and bang her every way I could. Legs on my shoulders, legs wrapped around me, deep missionary.

“I don’t want to finish. I want to save it for tonight.” “Ok.”

I slip out. Maybe it’s a sign that we should put it away until this evening. Or this afternoon. Whichever comes first. We both look down. My stiff cock hovers over her bush. Her aptly named landing strip. She lifts and arches. Tries to impale herself on me. I can’t refuse her. I hold my cock, let her slide her pussy onto it and fuck me from the bottom, and we’re back to it, my cock slamming her cervix, my ass sticking out into the cool morning air of the bedroom, her heels begging me to go deeper.

What happens when you take the book that I’m a few pages into (“The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society”, written in the form of letters circa WWII, not sure whether I’ll finish it), mix in vague memories of some Victorian-era smut I had access to in my youth (The Pearl), and slam it down on top of a nice good-morning warm-up fuck? I didn’t know either.

Next I’ll be doing Ayn Rand. “I know you know I know you want to fuck me.” “I know.”