(Letter Dated 9-12-03)
NE,
Having just finished reading your letter on the thoughts that passed so hungry and sweet through your mind that day on the floor, I am left considering foremost – is this the lady that protests a lack of imagination?
My second thought – if only my handwriting were so light, clear, and delicious. I am forced to let the voice of my words stand for themselves and know they are strong enough to push through the pale shadow of the printer page.
Third and consequent thoughts are along lines more suited to the content of your thoughts as you laid in the quiet sweetness of between-sleep.
I do owe you a story…and I think someday I will write you a more complete one, but for now I would rather give you this, a simple yet tempting scene as it lives in my head:
Unsuspecting, yet not surprised, my hands would rest lightly upon your shoulders as you look out over my porch. Sensing the subtle heat of my body behind you, you paused only to tilt your head slightly and lean back against me.
Although safe, there is a part that knows the danger in letting yourself fold so completely into me. And yet the delicious thrill of my hands guiding you up against the banister is too deep to resist.
And so your body ends up pressed gently against the cool wood of the banister, your eyes on the gray sky, silently aware of the cool wind against your skin and the pressing of fingers as they slip down along the edge of your skirt. Fingers that don’t pause, fingers that don’t stop at the edge, but slip up underneath to press against the sensitive hidden skin along the back of your thighs.
Left in this extremely vulnerable position, you feel yourself part your thighs unwittingly, just a bit, just enough. And now my hands are against your ass, fingers pointed down as I lean in, feeling your skin as you remain trapped gracefully against the wood in front of you.
Though gentle, my touch is sure and without room to question. You are left only to feel my hands as they trace the slow curves of your ass, thighs, and the back of your knees. My hands are warm against your skin and they move between your parted thighs like a whisper, remaining there along the soft inner skin, fingers spread to draw shivers as it moves. Light for a moment, then heavy against your skin, feeling just a bit moisture as it slips down your thigh…and then my hands move back, smoothing your skirt, as if nothing had happened. But I remain there, behind you, your head resting against my chest.
Your Master.
*shiver* She…is one lucky lady, to have a Master like you.
Perhaps you would like my website, D’jaevle. This post of yours was quite elusive and enjoyable, like the passing shudders of aftershock in the morning, following a night of intensive anatomy study…