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- #1
I want to talk to you about need.
Not mere ‘desire’ or ‘want’—need. You know the feeling, of course. Last Friday in the restaurant, what happened between us was such a powerful and intense explosion of it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night, and about you, indulging the yearning that’s been building inside me for so many months. I thought that night might help to quench the thirst I felt for you. Like a catalyst for a reaction that fizzles brightly and then is done. But in fact I find that it’s only fueled the fire of my utter desperation for everything you do and are. In short: I want more. I need more.
This isn’t an innocent love letter, far from it. I suppose if you want to put a label on it this is what you might call a lust letter. I’m pouring all my feelings—burning, intense and powerful—into words so that you can read them at your leisure. I wonder where you’ll read them? At home, in the kitchen as you sip your coffee and smile at the things I’m reminding you of? Perhaps you’ll read it on the tube on your way in to work, anticipating the way my eyes will meet yours when you get here, and I’ll smile as I see you blush with recognition. Maybe you’ll read it at work, in the bathroom, shortly after I slip it into your pocket. I like to think of you furtively locking yourself in a stall as you see in my account of what happened in the restaurant just outside where you’re sitting in that moment. Feeling your face grow hot as you get harderand more frustrated, reminiscing but being unable to touch until the restaurant has closed…
As I say, this is about need. You know, I’ve been needing you for so long. When you first came into the restaurant, you were just one of many smart, polite individuals who wanted the sommelier job. I have to say, I usually hate these interviews—too many smarmy men who assume on first glance that I’m a waitress instead of the head chef. I used to take great delight in introducing myself to those who’d made silly sexist assumptions, enjoying the way their face would crumple when they realised they’d made a faux pas that would cost them the job. You were obviously not one of these men, though. Not only did you treat me with respect, but you engaged me in the details: how my kitchen worked and my vision for the restaurant. I understood pretty quickly that unlike some of the other arrogant candidates, you didn’t assume you had anything to teach me, instead you were keen to learn from me. It wasn’t until right at the end of your interview that I even considered whether you might also want to see me naked. But our goodbye handshake fizzed with a sudden burst of chemistry, and I looked into your gorgeous dark eyes in that moment, noted the eagerness in your smile and… bam. That was it. I was hooked on you.
Perhaps the reason last Friday felt so powerful was because we’d both been waiting on it for so long. How many months has it been since you started working here? How many shifts have we shared which absolutely crackled with absurd levels of tension? I remember feeling a palpable wave of physical yearning the first time our hands brushed against each other on that particular morning, when I was passing you the menu for the specials at the gala. The crackle of energy in your gaze as you looked at me while I talked you through it. Then all evening, even as I was basking in the glow of success at how well everything was going, I could feel your eyes hungrily devouring me in my cocktail dress. I think sometime around the dessert course I accepted that I was secretly yearning for this lovely evening to just be over and done with. For everyone to say their final goodbyes and clear the restaurant, letting staff clear up and reset so they could leave the two of us alone… Yes. The dessert course. When you brushed past me on your way from the kitchen, and placed one hot hand in the small of my back. The zing of promise when I felt it gently brushing against the fabric of my dress and my burning-hot skin… that was when I knew this particular night was the night. The moment we would finally give in to our lusts. Our mutual, aching need.
Reliving that night, as I write this right now, is causing waves of arousal to pour down from the centre of my chest and right to my needy cunt. The way we both dived in to devour each other the second we knew we had the chance—you picking me up like I weighed nothing and placing me on the counter, all the better to wrap my legs around you. Letting the bare flesh of my thighs crush tight against your body. Dressed all in black, you were the very picture of perfection. I like to think I matched up to you, with sparkling jewellery that jingled as you pawed at my body, thrusting your fingers into my eager pussy, right there on the counter over which our eyes had met so many times! There was a poetry to it, don’t you think? When you dipped your head to lick me with your busy tongue, I was consumed by thoughts of flavour and anticipation—how even the most delicious things taste that much better after waiting. We dallied so long to consummate our need, it’s no wonder you buried yourself greedily into my crotch when we finally gave in.
Next, you took me off the counter and placed me on my feet—my legs were almost jelly as you unzipped my black dress and tugged it down. Lips round one of my nipples, sending tingles of pleasure that connected all the parts of me that were so keen for your attention. Naturally it wasn’t long before I wanted my turn. There was so much of your body to explore! And I had waited so long… When I knelt down to worship you, I couldn’t have hoped for a more beautiful cock on which to lavish my attention. Smooth and hard and seasoned with a perfect salty slick of precome. It tasted divine, and felt so too—an amuse bouche so delicious that I couldn’t wait to move on to the main course. I love to give nice wet blow jobs, letting my salivating mouth glide over you as a prelude to the way my pussy will feel when you enter me. Wet lips around your balls as well as the shaft too, emphasising the satisfying smoothness of your shaved crotch.
That you were shaved was a surprise to me, and there were other gorgeous surprises for me to unwrap as well. Like that tattoo on your shoulder. The view of your body from above as you lay me on the table and then set to work teasing my clit with your lips again… it was like finally being shown a secret I’d always longed to know. The sculpted beauty of your muscles—who’d have thought that your waiter’s uniform would so neatly hide just how taut and full your biceps were? I wanted to sink my teeth into them. Instead, all I could do was throw my head back and give in to the wanton desire that you were satisfying between my legs. You gripped my thighs so tight in that moment that the next day I could feel the imprints of where your fingers had been—like the ghost of passions past. I closed my eyes and let myself revel in those throbbing memories of touch, and I touched myself at the same time. Reliving alone, as I’m doing here for you, each detail of that incredible night.
There on the table, it felt like you were in service to me. Waiting on me with skill and care, the way you serve customers in my restaurant. Each movement you made seemed chosen specifically to raise the pressure inside me, making me even more desperate for the release of your perfect cock sliding in. When you tickled my wet clit with the head of it, I think I remember letting out a little whimper. When you ran it along the slit of my pussy, I almost laughed at how skilful a tease you were being. But then, finally, after all this wanton need, you slipped it all the way in. Right up to the hilt. I was wet and tight around you, and I’m sure you must have felt me pulse with the joy of it.
Are you thinking about it now, as you read this lust letter? Remembering the sensations in your cock just as I’m physically reliving them in my own body? I hope that wherever you are and whenever you’re reading, you remember that twitch in my cunt as you shoved yourself in. As you remember, too, the way my lips felt against yours when you pulled me in for a deep and passionate kiss. I know you savour the sensation of tightness, I could tell when you brought my legs together. I adore the way you did that—allowing me to clamp myself around you and enjoy the precision of knowing every single detail of your cock as it slides against the ripples inside me. Picture it now, go on. You surely won’t be reading this letter on a train or anywhere else people can see you. So treat yourself: picture it. The way my pussy splits open to receive your dick. The way it envelops and engulfs you. The best part of the stroke, when the ridge at the head is firmly clasped at the entrance.
I’m imagining it now, as I write. If it weren’t for the ache of want between my legs, I could almost trick myself into believing you’re inside me right now. Me, laying on the table in the restaurant that I own, just hours after my achievements have been celebrated at that night’s gala, dressed in my most stunning killer heels and being fucked by the gorgeous wine waiter I’ve been dreaming of for so long. One of the parts I like to luxuriate in, when I’m reliving this, is just how utterly powerful I felt. Like the world I had worked so hard to create for myself had finally all come together. The job, the accolades, the fact that I looked a million dollars and wasn’t ashamed to show it, but above all the wanton lust that I’d been nurturing inside me… all those things merged together that night into one huge burst of joy. Then exploded with colour and pattern and excitement, like a firework display.
And in the centre of those fireworks—your eyes. Your gaze. The way you held intense eye contact while you ploughed me so firmly and precisely. I know people talk about ‘falling into’ someone’s eyes, but for me it felt more like I was pinned. You were holding me in place with your look, just as you had placed me on the counter with your hands, or as you firmly pinned me to the table with the insistent thrusting of your beautiful prick. Sometimes, when we’re in the restaurant working together, I try to play a little game to see if I can guess what you’re trying to say with your eyes. I know (I know now) that occasionally you’ve been flashing little glances that mean things like ‘I want you’ or ‘I need to take you here and now over the counter’. But that night, while we were diving into that passionate fuck, I like to think that the message written in your eyes was the same reflected back to you from mine… at last!
You pulled me down onto you, I remember that vividly too. After almost pausing completely for that moment of recognition and switching to long, slow strokes to let it hit home… you gripped my hips and thighs and tugged me so my body slid against the table, and my pussy was impaled even further onto your marble-hard dick. Your athleticism might be hidden when you’re wearing your neat waiter’s uniform, but that just makes it all the more breathtaking when you strip and let your powerful side out to play. I felt like you were moulding my body to yours, your arm tight around my back to keep me stable as you fucked me. That was the first time I came that night—right there on the table. With you licking my nipples and holding me up and plunging yourself deep inside me, speeding up just enough as I started to let out the first cries that built to my orgasm, you clasped my head in one hand and stared into my eyes with such intensity I swear it was the force of your gaze that tipped me over the edge. One wave after another after another, my pussy twitched and clamped around you as I rode out that very first peak.
But you weren’t done yet. And nor was I. A need this insatiable doesn’t vanish just because one of us has climaxed. I don’t know that I’ll ever be sated of my desire for you, and I certainly wasn’t sated then. If anything, that first orgasm had just made me hungry for more, so when you flipped me over and pushed your face into the crack of my bum to show me more of what you could do, I let myself fall into the pure eroticism of it. I could tell from the way you did it that you’d been dreaming of doing it—perhaps for as long as I’d been hoping to let you. I looked back over my shoulder at you as you entered me again, pushing your fingers into my mouth so I could taste the mingled flavours of both of us from your fingertip. Then clasping my tits in your hands as you took me standing up, alternating pace from fast to slow and back again, you knew you were driving me into such a powerful frenzy.
I imagine I was loud—was I loud? Can you hear the noises I made as you relive the fuck through this letter? I do hope so. I think I mewled like a kitten. I certainly whimpered too. Urging you onwards to a climax of your own. Your silence in those moments felt like the greatest restraint, I hope that next time I can encourage you to let loose a little with your ownmoans and groans. Perhaps you were being respectful? Just as you try so hard not to interrupt conversations when customers in the restaurant are too engrossed to notice you’ve shown up with a bottle of wine, maybe your silence then was a way to allow me to fill the space with my own animal noises. Such impressive self-discipline. I’d have thought you a god if it weren’t for the fact that we had to break to allow for you to take off your shoes and socks. It was nice though, that part. I think we’d both got so wrapped up in the energy of our abject need that when this sudden release of sexual tension was punctuated by mortal concerns like shoes and table logistics, both of us just had to giggle. I loved that. I would like to giggle with you more.
The other thing I would like to do more is worship at the altar of your impeccable dick. Laying you down on the banquette seating, making eye contact while I take the full length of you into my throat, I knew exactly how much of a treat this was, and I hope you’ll agree I made the most of it. Made a meal of it, you might say.
By the time I finally mounted you, I could tell you were on the edge. I half expected you to explode on contact when I sat down, but naturally I was pleased that you didn’t. Getting to ride you while wearing my heels made me feel like an absolute goddess, especially when you grabbed the cheeks of my bum in both your hands, guiding me up and down as I pinned myself onto your dick. Bouncing, grinding, and eventually bracing myself with one foot on the floor so I could slide up and down the shaft, feeling you grow ever fuller and more ready to come with each stroke of that fuck. Your eyes were closed, and I could tell the moment you were about to tip over the edge because you gripped me even tighter—I can still feel those fingerpoints of pressure if I think really hard right now. The way you clasped me and moaned, there was no doubt in my mind that this was the moment.
And then… ohhhhh. That grunt of release! The way your cock pulsed inside me. I could feel the hot, thick shots of your spunk thudding into me with each twitch of it. Like I was milking every drop of the cum from within you. Divine.
After you were done, as I sat up, I could feel strings of your pleasure dripping out of me and onto your skin—I love that sensation, don’t you? I wonder if you’re thinking about it right now, as I reach the end of this… yeah I’ll call it a lust letter from your sexy chef. I hope you’re touching yourself as you read it, gripping that beautiful shaft in one hand, and letting the paper crumple and crease as you hold it too tight in the other. I hope you’ve enjoyed this first-hand account of how thoroughly satisfied I was by that night.
Were you satisfied too? Do you want to do it again? From the way you pulled me close up against you when we were done, and the many times you’ve met my gaze and grinned that wicked grin since last Friday… I think I’d say it’s a fairlysafe bet that you do. Perhaps you’d like to let me know. Write a little letter of your own, to give me a taste of what is in store. After all, as we both know, the pair of us thrive on anticipation. It’s the best way to heighten need.
And I need to have you again.
The End
Not mere ‘desire’ or ‘want’—need. You know the feeling, of course. Last Friday in the restaurant, what happened between us was such a powerful and intense explosion of it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that night, and about you, indulging the yearning that’s been building inside me for so many months. I thought that night might help to quench the thirst I felt for you. Like a catalyst for a reaction that fizzles brightly and then is done. But in fact I find that it’s only fueled the fire of my utter desperation for everything you do and are. In short: I want more. I need more.
This isn’t an innocent love letter, far from it. I suppose if you want to put a label on it this is what you might call a lust letter. I’m pouring all my feelings—burning, intense and powerful—into words so that you can read them at your leisure. I wonder where you’ll read them? At home, in the kitchen as you sip your coffee and smile at the things I’m reminding you of? Perhaps you’ll read it on the tube on your way in to work, anticipating the way my eyes will meet yours when you get here, and I’ll smile as I see you blush with recognition. Maybe you’ll read it at work, in the bathroom, shortly after I slip it into your pocket. I like to think of you furtively locking yourself in a stall as you see in my account of what happened in the restaurant just outside where you’re sitting in that moment. Feeling your face grow hot as you get harderand more frustrated, reminiscing but being unable to touch until the restaurant has closed…
As I say, this is about need. You know, I’ve been needing you for so long. When you first came into the restaurant, you were just one of many smart, polite individuals who wanted the sommelier job. I have to say, I usually hate these interviews—too many smarmy men who assume on first glance that I’m a waitress instead of the head chef. I used to take great delight in introducing myself to those who’d made silly sexist assumptions, enjoying the way their face would crumple when they realised they’d made a faux pas that would cost them the job. You were obviously not one of these men, though. Not only did you treat me with respect, but you engaged me in the details: how my kitchen worked and my vision for the restaurant. I understood pretty quickly that unlike some of the other arrogant candidates, you didn’t assume you had anything to teach me, instead you were keen to learn from me. It wasn’t until right at the end of your interview that I even considered whether you might also want to see me naked. But our goodbye handshake fizzed with a sudden burst of chemistry, and I looked into your gorgeous dark eyes in that moment, noted the eagerness in your smile and… bam. That was it. I was hooked on you.
Perhaps the reason last Friday felt so powerful was because we’d both been waiting on it for so long. How many months has it been since you started working here? How many shifts have we shared which absolutely crackled with absurd levels of tension? I remember feeling a palpable wave of physical yearning the first time our hands brushed against each other on that particular morning, when I was passing you the menu for the specials at the gala. The crackle of energy in your gaze as you looked at me while I talked you through it. Then all evening, even as I was basking in the glow of success at how well everything was going, I could feel your eyes hungrily devouring me in my cocktail dress. I think sometime around the dessert course I accepted that I was secretly yearning for this lovely evening to just be over and done with. For everyone to say their final goodbyes and clear the restaurant, letting staff clear up and reset so they could leave the two of us alone… Yes. The dessert course. When you brushed past me on your way from the kitchen, and placed one hot hand in the small of my back. The zing of promise when I felt it gently brushing against the fabric of my dress and my burning-hot skin… that was when I knew this particular night was the night. The moment we would finally give in to our lusts. Our mutual, aching need.
https://www.frolicme.com/audio/lesbian-group-sex/
Reliving that night, as I write this right now, is causing waves of arousal to pour down from the centre of my chest and right to my needy cunt. The way we both dived in to devour each other the second we knew we had the chance—you picking me up like I weighed nothing and placing me on the counter, all the better to wrap my legs around you. Letting the bare flesh of my thighs crush tight against your body. Dressed all in black, you were the very picture of perfection. I like to think I matched up to you, with sparkling jewellery that jingled as you pawed at my body, thrusting your fingers into my eager pussy, right there on the counter over which our eyes had met so many times! There was a poetry to it, don’t you think? When you dipped your head to lick me with your busy tongue, I was consumed by thoughts of flavour and anticipation—how even the most delicious things taste that much better after waiting. We dallied so long to consummate our need, it’s no wonder you buried yourself greedily into my crotch when we finally gave in.
Next, you took me off the counter and placed me on my feet—my legs were almost jelly as you unzipped my black dress and tugged it down. Lips round one of my nipples, sending tingles of pleasure that connected all the parts of me that were so keen for your attention. Naturally it wasn’t long before I wanted my turn. There was so much of your body to explore! And I had waited so long… When I knelt down to worship you, I couldn’t have hoped for a more beautiful cock on which to lavish my attention. Smooth and hard and seasoned with a perfect salty slick of precome. It tasted divine, and felt so too—an amuse bouche so delicious that I couldn’t wait to move on to the main course. I love to give nice wet blow jobs, letting my salivating mouth glide over you as a prelude to the way my pussy will feel when you enter me. Wet lips around your balls as well as the shaft too, emphasising the satisfying smoothness of your shaved crotch.
That you were shaved was a surprise to me, and there were other gorgeous surprises for me to unwrap as well. Like that tattoo on your shoulder. The view of your body from above as you lay me on the table and then set to work teasing my clit with your lips again… it was like finally being shown a secret I’d always longed to know. The sculpted beauty of your muscles—who’d have thought that your waiter’s uniform would so neatly hide just how taut and full your biceps were? I wanted to sink my teeth into them. Instead, all I could do was throw my head back and give in to the wanton desire that you were satisfying between my legs. You gripped my thighs so tight in that moment that the next day I could feel the imprints of where your fingers had been—like the ghost of passions past. I closed my eyes and let myself revel in those throbbing memories of touch, and I touched myself at the same time. Reliving alone, as I’m doing here for you, each detail of that incredible night.
There on the table, it felt like you were in service to me. Waiting on me with skill and care, the way you serve customers in my restaurant. Each movement you made seemed chosen specifically to raise the pressure inside me, making me even more desperate for the release of your perfect cock sliding in. When you tickled my wet clit with the head of it, I think I remember letting out a little whimper. When you ran it along the slit of my pussy, I almost laughed at how skilful a tease you were being. But then, finally, after all this wanton need, you slipped it all the way in. Right up to the hilt. I was wet and tight around you, and I’m sure you must have felt me pulse with the joy of it.
Are you thinking about it now, as you read this lust letter? Remembering the sensations in your cock just as I’m physically reliving them in my own body? I hope that wherever you are and whenever you’re reading, you remember that twitch in my cunt as you shoved yourself in. As you remember, too, the way my lips felt against yours when you pulled me in for a deep and passionate kiss. I know you savour the sensation of tightness, I could tell when you brought my legs together. I adore the way you did that—allowing me to clamp myself around you and enjoy the precision of knowing every single detail of your cock as it slides against the ripples inside me. Picture it now, go on. You surely won’t be reading this letter on a train or anywhere else people can see you. So treat yourself: picture it. The way my pussy splits open to receive your dick. The way it envelops and engulfs you. The best part of the stroke, when the ridge at the head is firmly clasped at the entrance.
I’m imagining it now, as I write. If it weren’t for the ache of want between my legs, I could almost trick myself into believing you’re inside me right now. Me, laying on the table in the restaurant that I own, just hours after my achievements have been celebrated at that night’s gala, dressed in my most stunning killer heels and being fucked by the gorgeous wine waiter I’ve been dreaming of for so long. One of the parts I like to luxuriate in, when I’m reliving this, is just how utterly powerful I felt. Like the world I had worked so hard to create for myself had finally all come together. The job, the accolades, the fact that I looked a million dollars and wasn’t ashamed to show it, but above all the wanton lust that I’d been nurturing inside me… all those things merged together that night into one huge burst of joy. Then exploded with colour and pattern and excitement, like a firework display.
And in the centre of those fireworks—your eyes. Your gaze. The way you held intense eye contact while you ploughed me so firmly and precisely. I know people talk about ‘falling into’ someone’s eyes, but for me it felt more like I was pinned. You were holding me in place with your look, just as you had placed me on the counter with your hands, or as you firmly pinned me to the table with the insistent thrusting of your beautiful prick. Sometimes, when we’re in the restaurant working together, I try to play a little game to see if I can guess what you’re trying to say with your eyes. I know (I know now) that occasionally you’ve been flashing little glances that mean things like ‘I want you’ or ‘I need to take you here and now over the counter’. But that night, while we were diving into that passionate fuck, I like to think that the message written in your eyes was the same reflected back to you from mine… at last!
You pulled me down onto you, I remember that vividly too. After almost pausing completely for that moment of recognition and switching to long, slow strokes to let it hit home… you gripped my hips and thighs and tugged me so my body slid against the table, and my pussy was impaled even further onto your marble-hard dick. Your athleticism might be hidden when you’re wearing your neat waiter’s uniform, but that just makes it all the more breathtaking when you strip and let your powerful side out to play. I felt like you were moulding my body to yours, your arm tight around my back to keep me stable as you fucked me. That was the first time I came that night—right there on the table. With you licking my nipples and holding me up and plunging yourself deep inside me, speeding up just enough as I started to let out the first cries that built to my orgasm, you clasped my head in one hand and stared into my eyes with such intensity I swear it was the force of your gaze that tipped me over the edge. One wave after another after another, my pussy twitched and clamped around you as I rode out that very first peak.
But you weren’t done yet. And nor was I. A need this insatiable doesn’t vanish just because one of us has climaxed. I don’t know that I’ll ever be sated of my desire for you, and I certainly wasn’t sated then. If anything, that first orgasm had just made me hungry for more, so when you flipped me over and pushed your face into the crack of my bum to show me more of what you could do, I let myself fall into the pure eroticism of it. I could tell from the way you did it that you’d been dreaming of doing it—perhaps for as long as I’d been hoping to let you. I looked back over my shoulder at you as you entered me again, pushing your fingers into my mouth so I could taste the mingled flavours of both of us from your fingertip. Then clasping my tits in your hands as you took me standing up, alternating pace from fast to slow and back again, you knew you were driving me into such a powerful frenzy.
I imagine I was loud—was I loud? Can you hear the noises I made as you relive the fuck through this letter? I do hope so. I think I mewled like a kitten. I certainly whimpered too. Urging you onwards to a climax of your own. Your silence in those moments felt like the greatest restraint, I hope that next time I can encourage you to let loose a little with your ownmoans and groans. Perhaps you were being respectful? Just as you try so hard not to interrupt conversations when customers in the restaurant are too engrossed to notice you’ve shown up with a bottle of wine, maybe your silence then was a way to allow me to fill the space with my own animal noises. Such impressive self-discipline. I’d have thought you a god if it weren’t for the fact that we had to break to allow for you to take off your shoes and socks. It was nice though, that part. I think we’d both got so wrapped up in the energy of our abject need that when this sudden release of sexual tension was punctuated by mortal concerns like shoes and table logistics, both of us just had to giggle. I loved that. I would like to giggle with you more.
The other thing I would like to do more is worship at the altar of your impeccable dick. Laying you down on the banquette seating, making eye contact while I take the full length of you into my throat, I knew exactly how much of a treat this was, and I hope you’ll agree I made the most of it. Made a meal of it, you might say.
By the time I finally mounted you, I could tell you were on the edge. I half expected you to explode on contact when I sat down, but naturally I was pleased that you didn’t. Getting to ride you while wearing my heels made me feel like an absolute goddess, especially when you grabbed the cheeks of my bum in both your hands, guiding me up and down as I pinned myself onto your dick. Bouncing, grinding, and eventually bracing myself with one foot on the floor so I could slide up and down the shaft, feeling you grow ever fuller and more ready to come with each stroke of that fuck. Your eyes were closed, and I could tell the moment you were about to tip over the edge because you gripped me even tighter—I can still feel those fingerpoints of pressure if I think really hard right now. The way you clasped me and moaned, there was no doubt in my mind that this was the moment.
And then… ohhhhh. That grunt of release! The way your cock pulsed inside me. I could feel the hot, thick shots of your spunk thudding into me with each twitch of it. Like I was milking every drop of the cum from within you. Divine.
After you were done, as I sat up, I could feel strings of your pleasure dripping out of me and onto your skin—I love that sensation, don’t you? I wonder if you’re thinking about it right now, as I reach the end of this… yeah I’ll call it a lust letter from your sexy chef. I hope you’re touching yourself as you read it, gripping that beautiful shaft in one hand, and letting the paper crumple and crease as you hold it too tight in the other. I hope you’ve enjoyed this first-hand account of how thoroughly satisfied I was by that night.
Were you satisfied too? Do you want to do it again? From the way you pulled me close up against you when we were done, and the many times you’ve met my gaze and grinned that wicked grin since last Friday… I think I’d say it’s a fairlysafe bet that you do. Perhaps you’d like to let me know. Write a little letter of your own, to give me a taste of what is in store. After all, as we both know, the pair of us thrive on anticipation. It’s the best way to heighten need.
And I need to have you again.
The End
