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Message-ID: <40590asstr$1043442608@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Meme Mispelt <meem17@mwmw.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Letter, with Tea and Bourbon <*> {Meme Misspelt} {F-solo rom MF? FFM? fine bone china}
Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 16:10:08 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of adult fiction, and is not intended for minors, any 
persons likely to be offended by explicit erotic content, or for 
distribution in any area where possession may violate laws or community 
standards.  
The author retains copyright in this work; you are hereby granted license 
to download, print and/or archive this work for personal use only. 
License is not granted to archive, or publish this work by any means in 
any publicly available archive, or physical form, without the author's 
prior consent.  Please just ask first, okay?
The author loves feedback, criticism and even hate mail, but not viruses!
jeez, lay off already with that, puhleeze: meem17@pottedmeatmwmw.com
Take out the potted meat before e-mailing, else yr mail will spoil.

This story was written as part of Mat Twassel's "In Thoughts of You"
project, inspired by a painting by Jack Vettriano, and there are more 
stories and poems inspired by the painting at Mat's asstr site:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/twassel/www

Story codes: F-solo rom MF? FFM? fine bone china

Letter, with Tea and Bourbon
by Meme Misspelt


Hey Chas, how's it going?

It's me, Maggie. Been a while since I've written, huh? I bet you're 
surprised to get this.

Or, I dunno, maybe you're not surprised at all.  

Maybe you can see me writing this.  Maybe you can, I dunno, see the 
molecules whizzing around in my head, making the thoughts before I know 
what they are.

Fuck.  I'm having trouble with the light and breezy approach.  Why is 
this so hard?  Talking to you was so much easier.

If you could see me, I bet you'd like the view.  I'm sitting with a cup 
of tea by my side.  I put down the pad now and again and cradle the tea 
in my lap.  It's warm, and it's cold in here.  I suppose from the right 
angle, I might look quite proper.

But of course, there's a big slug of bourbon in the tea, and of course 
both the bourbon and the tea are stolen property.  Which, come to think 
of it, I guess makes the tea "hot," not just warm.  Ha ha.

But anyway.

I've got my hair cut short again.  Bangy.  It's dark these days, with 
some blonde streaks.  I have long black stockings on, and a mediumish 
black skirt.  Tight black sweater.  Black, black, black, just like you 
like it.  And these cute ankle boots with little mini-spike heels.

You'd have hated the day I went shopping for the boots -- it was with 
Janice, you don't know Janice, and God, it took hours, I mean, even I 
got a little bored.  But Chas, babe, you'd love what they do for my 
legs.  When I wear them, I keep trying to catch sight of myself in 
mirrors, without being all vain about it.  Subtle, that's the key.  I've 
got good legs, always have, but these boots do something extra for me.  
Whenever I wear them, I have to masturbate before I take them off.  At 
least twice, usually, and I'm going to masturbate today.  Soon.

In addition to the boots and the black-black-black, I am wearing: no 
bra.  Are my nipples hard?  I will put the pad and the pen down to 
check.

. . . yes, but that might just be because it's pretty chilly.

Finally, I am wearing: no panties.  Am I wet?  Hold on . . .

God, yes.  So after all these years -- no, we're _not_ counting them -- 
Chas, just thinking about you looking at me, about how you'd like the 
way these boots make my legs look even sleeker and more muscular, 
thinking about what you'd want to do to me when you got good and done 
looking -- it makes my cunt absolutely sopping.

I guess I should tell you: I've got a boyfriend now. Robert.  I didn't 
tell you about him last year because I wasn't certain of him yet, but we 
moved in together last March, and it's been easier than I expected.  I 
hope you'd like him.  He's more -- well, words like "stable" come to 
mind -- than you, but I hope you wouldn't write him off as too much of a 
square.  He's got a huge, warm heart.  And he's no slouch in the sack, 
even if he's not quite in your class.  And I love him very much.  Maybe 
he doesn't drive me crazy like you did, but crazy wasn't always good for 
us.

See, this is something it took me a long time to figure out.  I had a 
bad run of dating because I kept trying to replace you, and that never 
worked.  Robert doesn't replace you.  You left a hole in my life, in my 
heart, that I don't think that can ever be filled.  But Robert isn't 
trying and failing to fill that hole; he occupies a different space in 
me.  His space.

And I don't think that I'll be writing you again, babe.  Just this last 
time, to say goodbye, finally, as best I can.

In the end, you're still the best lover I ever had, probably always will 
be.  You can take that to the bank.  No one else ever turned me on or 
got me off like you did.  Satisfied?  I hope so.  Not that it was always 
great, but even at the end, I could remember how it was at the start.

I sometimes wonder what.  If.  You know.

Would we have hung on?  What would you be doing?  What would you think 
of me?  Would you think I sold out?  I worry about that.

Remember that book you liked so much, the one I made fun of? The monster 
went to the oracle to ask if he had a soul.  And the oracle said, "Only 
those who have souls worry about them."   But maybe it's different, if 
you have a soul to start with and then lose it.  Maybe you still worry.

I mean, I feel basically the same.  Only, well, different.  These days, 
I work -- are you sitting down? -- I work for a stock brokerage firm.  
That took a little string-pulling, considering how things turned out, 
even for a glorified clerical position.  Still, it sounds alarming, 
doesn't it? But it's not like I take it _seriously_, it's just little 
numbers.  I move them from one column to another, and sometimes I move 
them back again.  And somewhere someone moves columns of numbers that 
have something to do with me, but it's still not important.

It's like my new boots.  I do hope you like the boots.  But if I 
couldn't afford the boots, I'd still come here and drink tea, maybe with 
bourbon -- probably with bourbon -- and write you a letter and play with 
myself.

I don't think I've, you know, let it inside me.  I don't feel like I'm 
one of the people I work with.  I feel like they _have_ let it inside 
them, or maybe let it empty them out.  They take it all seriously.

But then again, I don't know, maybe they think I take it seriously too.

I mean -- and you're probably zoning out, but here comes another good 
part -- sometimes I wear stuff to work.  You know, stuff.  Ben-wa balls, 
and even a butt-plug once.

I like to feel something moving inside me when I move.  It reminds me 
that I'm really a sex-creature.  I may have to spend the day moving 
numbers back in forth, but I bring lust into their pristine building.

Sometimes, at lunchtime, I go into the restroom, and I pull my panties 
off, and wad them up and shove them into my mouth for a gag.  I have a 
clean pair tucked in my purse, and a little baggie for the sodden ones.

I bring myself off.  Sometimes quickly, but sometimes I tease 
myself for almost the whole hour.  I'm very quiet when I finally come, 
because of the gag, and the great care I take not to make the walls of 
the stall, or the paper dispenser or anything else rattle.

And for the rest of the afternoon, when I need a little perk, I sort of 
pass my fingers under my nose, and smell the tang of my own cunt, and 
smile a little to myself.

But assuming that no one knows about this, and I see no reason to think 
anyone does, maybe other people are doing things like this too?

So sometimes I see crusty old Thorpe waddling down the hall, and I 
wonder:  Is he wearing a butt-plug?  In fact, sometimes when I frig 
myself in the stall, I think about Thorpe.  I see him kneeling on a 
table, his limbs all trussed together.  He is a bit like an enormous 
roast pig, with an apple crammed in his mouth and a carrot sticking out 
of his ass. Standing nearby in the shadows is someone, maybe a woman, 
with a crop in her hand or something.  I am not too clear on this part.

I'm not clear either on why I fantasize about him.  It's not exactly 
erotic, the thought of his pale, flabby ass, it's more absurd.  I could 
ask my therapist about it, if I wasn't too embarrassed.  I think it is 
maybe something about the idea that there could be a sex-creature in 
everyone.  The thought of him abandoning all his control to his desire. 
 Becoming so vulnerable.

. . . but I'm losing you again, so I had better tell you about Martine. 
 Aha, that's better, isn't it?  I mean, Martine, the name alone is 
enough to stir an erection in you, isn't it?  French and sexy, oozing 
rolling r's and love juices all over the damn place.

Except she's from Brooklyn, but she still oozes sex. At least I think, 
or anyway, hope, she does.  She has three piercings in one ear, which 
marks her as at least once-upon-a-time less straitlaced than most of 
them.

All my piercings are hidden.  Ha ha.  No, but, I can wear a sundress 
now.  I mean, if I wanted.  I don't, but it's nice to have the option.

Martine likes the black-black-black too.  Have you ever noticed -- 
except you wouldn't.  But sometimes a single accessory can make the 
difference between severe and saucy.  During the day she's all business, 
but if the team goes for drinks at Larson's Grill there's a different belt, or a little beret, a bangly bracelet, or an extra button undone, 
and you  should see the way they flock around her.  The young suits that flood the city at happy hour, I mean.  Crisp and boyish, every one, like they were stamped from a mold.

I'm well-equipped to make these sharp sociological observations because 
my faculties are undimmed.  I order club soda with a twist of lime, and 
sip it with the care and slowness accorded a gin and tonic.  It's very 
discreet.

But Martine. Two inches taller than me, so her legs are that much 
longer.  My boot purchase was inspired a little, I admit, by a pair she 
has that have the same effect on her.  They transform her legs from 
works of art, which they basically are, to dangerous weapons.  They 
transfix most of the men, and not a few of the women, and hold them in 
drooling thrall.

You always thought I was so uptight about the whole lesbian thing, 
didn't you?  So you would like this, too: another fantasy, in the stall 
at lunchtime, is Martine.

It's the office Christmas party or something, and Martine has had too 
much to drink.  Which is not a stretch.  So she goes into the back 
conference room, which has this hideous, incongruous piece of furniture. 
 It's a disgusting green, and knobbly, like a refugee from some 
nightmare dorm lounge, but anyway, it's low and flat and comparatively 
soft.  So Martine basically drapes herself over it in a more-or-less 
semi-conscious state.  Limbs akimbo, carelessly strewn.

The room is pretty dark and quiet, with a wedge of light across the 
floor through the cracked door, and the faint babble of people.  Out in 
the front rooms, people are trying to kiss company ass and/or get 
smashed on the company dime.  The firm provides top-shelf stuff, and I'm 
well-behaved with my discreet soda, but not completely happy about it.

I abandon my soda with no regret and creep into the darkened conference 
room.  Deep pile carpet is soundless, and anyway, Martine's pretty out 
of it.

So I sort of loom over her.  I lean way down, supporting myself with my 
arms on the hideous green thing.  And I lower my head down to one of her 
legs, which is pleasantly encased in sheer black fabric.  I start right 
where her ankle disappears into her foxy boot, at the back of her leg.

At first, even if she were all the way awake, but blindfolded or 
something, she would probably not notice what I am doing.  This is how 
delicate this lick is: her nylons could feel it, if they had nerves, but 
she couldn't.  As yet, I'm not transferring any pressure or moisture to 
Martine's leg.  The greedy stocking is keeping it all.

But as I slowly, ever so slowly, trace my tongue up her, I get bolder.  
If she were alert, which she isn't, she would first feel the merest 
tickle, like the passage of an ant.  The intensity of the sensation 
would gradually increase.  Soon it would be obvious that it was the 
touch of a tongue.  In fact, about the time I get to the back of her 
knee, I think about how you used to tease me there, and I get carried 
away making a bunch of little circles with my tongue.  If Martine had 
her wits about her, she would now be categorizing the tongue action as 
distinctly lascivious.  Anyway, _something_ penetrates her fogged brain, 
and she makes this little half-moan and sort of wiggles the leg around 
to improve my access.  She is not really aware of where she is, or of me 
as such.  She probably thinks she's home, that I'm whoever guy she is 
currently seeing, but she is starting to get pretty hot.

At this point, I should mention that you are there.  Often it's Robert, 
of course, but today it's you.  You're kneading your cock through your 
pants and looking speculatively at how Martine's mouth is hanging open a 
bit.  If she's actually drooling, I'm sure you won't notice it.

It's pretty dark, so I can't tell what color your hair is, or what 
you're wearing.  But I can read your expression easily, because of the 
way the faint light hits the planes of your face, and, anyway, because 
it's my damn fantasy.

If you're not there, it's just creepy.  Licking some passed-out girl's 
leg, eww.  But when you're there, we're seducing her together.  You 
always did want to see me make it with another chick -- don't deny it, 
you hinted enough -- and it turns me on to know how much it turns you 
on. What makes this fantasy work is the element of conspiracy.  You and 
me awakening Martine's lust.

I'm losing my patience a bit here, and I can't make the journey up 
Martine's thigh last quite as long as the trip up her lower leg.  I'm 
eager to taste her.  Her excitement is hanging thick in the air.

She's moaning more, and tossing her head back and forth, and she 
mutters, "Oh, Chas, oh, Chas."

I shoot you a reproachful look, like,  what, you've been having it off 
with _this_ one _too_?  You never did cheat on me, so far as I know, but 
in my fantasies you often did.  Your passion seemed so huge and 
overwhelming, how could it not spill over somewhere?

You just sort of shrug, not apologetically enough to suit me, and stick 
your hand down your waistband.

Martine rolls flat on her back now and spreads her legs wide and draws 
her knees up a little, which makes her short skirt flop up.

Either the light in here is getting better, or my eyes are getting 
really dark-adjusted.  I have already happily determined that she's 
wearing thigh-highs, and I can now clearly see that she is also wearing: 
no panties.

And because she's hip and young and from Brooklyn, not France after all, 
it is undoubtedly trimmed with just a little pornstar goatee.  Usually I 
do not care for this at all, but somehow right now it's pleasingly 
obscene, and anyway, it helps me see where things are.  Because 
Martine's cunt is not just like mine; her outer lips are heavier, she's 
more hidden.  So of course I have to go exploring.  Spelunking, even.

As soon as my tongue touches her lips, she realizes that is a _female_ 
tongue, because this is instantly obvious in all books and movies that 
address the subject, never mind that the tongue equipment is basically 
the same.  I am supernally gifted with feminine knowledge, even though 
I've never done this before.

So Martine's eyes fly open, and she sits up -- or anyway, tries to, 
whoa! head rush! -- and she sees me crouched over her, with my hungry 
tongue in her pussy.

"Margaret -- !" she gasps, because none of my co-workers know me well 
enough to call me "Maggie", and "What -- !?" even though it should be 
very obvious what.

I raise my head to address her.  She immediately realizes that this 
isn't really what she wants, my head raised, and lets out with a little 
whimper, even as I am saying, "Shh, just lie back."  And wordlessly, she 
does.  She gives me this _look_.

And maybe she can't see you, but then again, maybe she can.  Maybe you 
kneel down and gag her with your dick.  Maybe I raise my lips from her 
and work at her with my fingers for a few moments, so I can watch the 
muscles in her throat flex as she bobs her head on your shaft.

And you'd better tear your eyes from the sight of Martine's pretty lips 
stretched around your blood-thickened prick, and look at me.  Look me in 
the eyes.

And then I guess I make her come, and she makes you come, and somebody I 
suppose makes me come. But by then I'm afraid I've lost interest: the 
moment of my peak isn't the porn-flick come shot scene.

Back in the ladies', I'm standing; it's a bit awkward, with one shoulder 
jammed against the back wall.  Everything else will move or rattle, the 
back wall is solid.  I have to switch shoulders some days, because I get 
bruises from pushing too hard.

I'll have at least two fingers in me, in my pussy, or somewhere.  I've 
got my clit hood lightly caught between two fingers of my other hand, or 
sometimes I just like the heel of my hand to grind, right there.  I've 
never dared the bumblebee buzz of a vibe, but I have slipped a slim 
dildo into my purse.

And the moment when I buck and hurt my shoulder and bite down hard on 
the makeshift gag is the one I already described.  It's the look in 
Martine's eyes when she lies back to let me eat her out, it's the look I 
give you with my finger pressing her clit while I'm still jealous of her 
mouth.

It's a little bit surrender and a little bit invitation.  It's not so 
much submission, or anyway, not to you, but to our selves.  It says, 
we're helpless, we're sex-creatures.  Even at the office party, with a 
little clump of people getting sloshed in the Xerox room almost right 
next door, with the threat of discovery imminent, we give in to lust, 
let it roar through us like a riptide.

That's when I come.  When our eyes meet.

And sometimes I think maybe no one ever sells out, we're all real 
inside, beating, hard and throbbing, where it counts.  We all just 
pretend to sell out, so it adds up the same as if we had.  But the 
sex-creature is still in Martine and me and you and disgusting old 
Thorpe and the new assistant VP of Marketing, for all I know.

Come to think of it, you could be a VP of marketing by now.  Not an 
assistant, I don't think you could stomach that.  Can I see you in a 
suit, still slouching into the boardroom?  Rebellion visible only in 
your posture and, a little bit, in your tie?  I think I can.

Hell, maybe we'd be living somewhere like this.

Beacon Hill, love -- I think you know the address.  There's a new 
burglar alarm, but it's still not a very good one, and the lock was no 
real challenge either.

It's a safety violation.  Remember when I corrected you about the 
lightning?  "Well, okay," you said with that wry little chuckle. You 
could be so gracious about being wrong, and I could be so mean about 
lording my education over you.  Degree or not, Chas, you were sharp as 
hell.  "So maybe it _does_ strike twice in the same place," you went on. 
 "But the B&E artist still shouldn't."

But Chas, it's gotten so much easier to be careful.  I looked up their 
plane tickets on the Internet -- they use the same password for almost 
all their accounts.  And they're always, always out of town this time of 
year.  It's not even the same folks, of course.  The house was sold the 
year after.  It's not as if the realtor would have said anything, but 
they must have heard rumors, whispers from the neighbors' grandkids.

Maybe the new owners know somehow, that on this day their house belongs 
to me.  To us.  Maybe they know they have an annual visitor.  Maybe they 
think I'm a ghost.

But I'm not a ghost. I wander through all the cold silent rooms, up and 
down the shadowy stairs.  All my nerves are running on overdrive.  
Everything is draped under white sheets.  I'm here with the ghosts of 
all their furniture, and I'm the only thing that's alive.  I'm so alive, 
I can feel every cell, and I'm sure Martine has never, ever felt as 
alive as this.  I'm sure I'm still different after all.

I was so nervous the first time, remember?  So sure we were going to get 
caught.  Breaking and entering sounded like a big deal.  I was shocked 
when you told me how many times you'd done it, and even more shocked 
when you told me why: not to steal, or anyway, not to steal anything 
much more than a bottle.

Just for the thrill of it.

I felt so incredibly naked on the back deck while you worked the lock, 
even after you pointed out that there was almost no line of sight to a 
neighboring building, told me the coast would be clear until the maid 
arrived next door.  You were always so cautious, until I led you into 
the deep, dark water.

The alarm started whooping and I thought I might have a heart attack in 
the seconds it took you to silence it.  It sounded so loud, I was 
certain it had reverberated through every patrol car within miles.

But as I stood there, suddenly clammy, while the echoes of the alarm 
died away, I began to get it.

We were in a house owned by strangers!  More than that, we were in their 
lives.  The charge of it was something like voyeurism, but with an added 
dimension.  For an hour or so, despite all the careful rules -- no 
externally visible lights, keep the noise level down and gloves on, 
don't touch _too_ much -- we got to _live_ their lives.

And surprise, it got me really, really horny.  And up the stairs, what a 
delightfully ridiculous Laura Ashley gingerbread  house of a bed we 
found to fuck in, and what a thrill it was to fuck there, knowing that, 
as careful as we were, it truly was a risk.

They've had the gas shut off, the paranoids.  So that's another little 
lock to jimmy, and I have to light the pilot in the stove to make my 
tea.  Have to remember to turn it all off again afterwards.  The 
thermostat is down as low as it will go, and I turn it up to a livable 
temperature even though I'm not sure I'm going to be here long enough to 
enjoy it.  There's plenty of heating oil, fortunately.  

The lock on the liquor cabinet probably wouldn't even stop the help.  
There's loads of wonderful single malts, but it would compound the crime 
of theft to mix them with tea.  I want bourbon, and there's always a 
bottle. The cheap hooch is what goes in the tea.  The pricey tea, in the 
fine bone china cup.

I haven't done smack since the night you died.  I know, I say that in 
every letter, but my therapist actually approves of this bit.  She says 
it's "working through."  My NA buddy -- oh, and I can see you rolling 
your eyes, arching your brows.  "A twelve-step program?"  But it was a 
court order, a provision of my parole, not by choice -- thinks it's a 
bit weird that I write you, but probably not harmful.  I don't tell 
either of them about the you-know-what in the tea, but fuck 'em.  It's 
NA, not AA that I go to, and it's just one slug a year. In your memory, 
love. I also don't tell them about my habit of writing you from someone 
else's house, but I figure that's on a need-to-know basis.

I don't remember much of that night, like so many others.  Blue, really 
blue, or anyway bluish -- Christ, I'd thought it was just a metaphor.  
And the look in the EMT's eyes, disgust like I'd never seen before. Even 
then, before it really hit me, I thought there should have been more 
disgust.  He looked at me and thought "junkie," but he probably assumed 
the bad musician had gotten the nice girl on the juice, because that's 
how it goes, isn't it?  Except with us, it was the other way around.

Remember the night I talked you into it?  You were so nervous, so 
scared.  And damn it, you were right.  We should have stuck with 
housebreaking.

After you died, part of me wanted to shoot the whole world into my 
veins, chase you wherever you'd gone.  People tried to tell me that's 
not what you would've wanted, but fuck them, how the hell should they 
know?  Maybe you're really pissed at me for still being here.  But in 
the end, I really didn't want to follow.

And at least you get a private show, once a year.

I always wanted to do this while you were alive.  Not that you needed 
instruction in how to get me off, but I liked the idea of looking you in 
the eyes as I made myself come.  I liked to picture you sitting, hard 
and naked, on a slightly uncomfortable chair just a few feet away, with 
your hands clasped, maybe tied, behind the chair.  Just watching.

I could tease you like that for a long time. 

Fingers first, I think, then some toys.

At first, I always wanted your touch too urgently to hold you at some 
remove.  Later it seemed like we'd always have time.  And awhile after 
that, well, I guess we had different priorities.

And now, of course, this is all we have.

Did I bring some toys with me today, in my little satchel, with the 
little notebook and the little case of lock picks?  Why, yes, I did.

Problem: I can't write about this and do it at the same time.

Should I describe what I'm going to do to myself first, then carry out 
the plan?  Or should I tell you all about it after the fact?

. . . you'd want both, of course.  You were always greedy about sex -- 
kind of like me.

But that's all right, I'm feeling very impatient.  I may let myself rush 
"before" a little bit.  

I wanted you before I even met you, did I ever tell you that?  I must 
have.  Some show, I don't remember where, or who I'd actually gone to 
see, but I remember telling Jenn, I was there with Jenn, "Damn, the bass 
player's cute!"  And she was like, "Really?" And I could see why she 
wouldn't think so, but still: your eyes smouldered, terrible cliche, but 
la mot juste, smouldered.  And I loved the way your hips moved.  I 
wished that big ugly instrument wasn't in the way, so I could see your 
hips move better.  And, well, yeah.  You know.  See your cock.

Okay, so it didn't happen this way, not really, but pretend, I watched 
the whole rest of that set thinking about how much I wanted to suck your 
cock.

Mmm, yeah, when you get off stage I sort of grab you and pull you into 
the bathroom.  You're surprised of course, but you don't stop me from 
unbuckling your belt and tugging those tight leather pants down your 
hips.

And you're not slow to respond, either.  I love the feel of you swelling 
to full hardness inside my mouth.

Here's something I'm sure I never told you: the first time you wanted to 
be in my mouth after you'd been in my pussy, I thought it was really 
gross. 

Can you believe it?  Twenty-some years old and I'd never tasted myself. 
 Never wanted to.  Thought it sounded unclean and unpleasant.  So that 
first time, I did it just because of that look in your eyes that told me 
how much you wanted me to.  Oh, but I liked it.  I did not find pussy an 
acquired taste, nosiree.  So in this revisionist first-encounter 
fantasy, I think you grab my head and start really fucking my face.  I 
mean, groupie slut in the men's room; no reason to be tender, right?  
And I wiggle my fingers down my skirt, down my fishnets, and manage to 
get a finger inside.

After you blast right down my throat, I pull my hand out of my crotch.

Still kneeling, I look up at you with that faux-innocent, 
eyelash-batting, slightly vapid expression all the video cocksucker 
girls wear, and I stick my finger in my mouth and suck every last drop 
of my taste from it.

And I see the way your cock twitches when I do that, and I smile.

Today, in hoity-toity Beacon Hill, in just a few moments, I'm going to 
plunge my fingers into myself, and I'm going to lick them clean.  I'm 
going to think about how you loved to lick me, and how you'd love to see 
me lick Martine.  Okay, and maybe a bit about how _I'd_ like to lick 
Martine.  But mostly of you.

I'm going to push this vibrator deep inside me, and pull it out.  In 
honor of that first blowjob I never gave you, in memory of all the ones 
I did, I'm going to slide that slick thing deep down my gullet.  You'd 
be so proud of me, Chas, no gag reflex at all.

And then I'm really going to start to fuck myself.  I'm going to stick 
my legs straight up in the air, grab the vibe with both hands and give 
it to myself as hard as I can take it, just like you used to give it to 
me.

I want to get my hot live juices all over the cold dead sheets.  When 
the owners finally come back from Boca Raton, I want them to find the 
house still filled with the stench of my sex.

Oh God, Chas, I want you so much.

I miss you --

(Later)

. . . So I think that you could see me perfectly well after all.  But 
since you still might like a keepsake, presented for your approval, a 
catalog of Maggie's Masturbation Activities on this day, oh, you know 
damned well what day it is.

First, in the chair, in the drawing room or sitting room, or whatever it 
is.  Moderate nipple tweaking, intermittent pussy rubbing.  After I set 
the letter aside, activities escalated.  These include repeated vaginal 
penetration by one, two, then three fingers.  Much licking clean of 
fingers.  Nice big blotch left on the sheet.

Then I got up and I went into the living room.  It was very dark, since 
the only windows face the back of the house, and they are covered with 
heavy insulating curtains.  I even thought about risking an electric 
light.  The owners have bought this absurd-looking new couch.  I pulled 
the sheet off it to get a better look.  It was really long, long enough 
to lie full-length easily, and the sides swooped up into this high, 
silly, rolly things.  Proof positive that "old money" is no guarantee of 
good taste.  Some more light pussy rubbing to get myself warmed up 
again.  I pinched my nipples and rolled them between my fingers.  I 
thought of you reading this letter, of how hard you would get.

I imagined that maybe it was wartime, and you were a soldier, on a 
strange jungle mission.  You'd carry my letter, folded and folded into a 
tiny square, hidden somewhere.  Bottom of your binoculars case, or with 
your ammo perhaps.  Every night when you bunked down, you'd unfold the 
creased and cracked letter -- carefully, carefully -- and read it under 
the small yellow glow of a penlight.  Then you'd fold the letter back up 
and secret it away again.  I suppose you'd really be in a tent, but I 
like to think of you crawling out of a sleeping bag and lying flat on 
your back under the night sky, undoing your zipper. 

You'd spring up hard and throbbing.  It would make my pussy ache to see 
the way the moon would highlight the veins on your cock.  I would want 
something inside me while I watched you jerk off.

I pulled one of my toys, a medium-sized dildo, out of the satchel.  It 
tickles me -- all that realistic molding and the latest in lifelike skin 
feel, but it's a nearly florescent green.

I was going to put it inside me when I noticed the candelabra by the 
piano, and its slim, elegant tapers.  They were cold at first, but 
warmed up quickly.  I lay on the ugly, fancy couch and fucked myself 
with two of the candles at once.  Then I grabbed my plastic bead toy 
from my bag, lubed it up, and worked it into my anus.

It's a little overwhelming, being filled fore and aft.  I like it, I 
like how dirty it makes me feel, but it takes some stretching to do it 
to myself.  It's a little too complicated for me to really get off.  I 
can tease myself for a long time that way, though, and I did.

I writhed and moaned a little more and a little louder than I do when 
I'm just masturbating for myself, because I thought you'd like it.

The darkest part of the room was in the corner, behind the sheeted 
specter of the piano.  If you had been standing there, just there, and 
stood very still, I could have lost your face against the wall.  You 
could have been there watching as I toyed with myself for your pleasure.

I got tired of being full and pulled the candles and the toy out.  I 
worked at myself with my fingers, dipping them in and out.  I caressed 
lightly around my clitoris without quite touching it.  I didn't want to 
make myself come in the living room.

When I'd had about all the teasing I could endure, I stood up.  I 
twirled around and smoothed my skirt in mock decorum.  I tossed my toys 
back into my bag and slowly climbed the dim stairs.

How many beds did we fuck in, in all?  Your place, my place, our place. 
 A handful of hotels on our vacations together.  And then, what, maybe 
once every two or three months over our three years together?  A 
forbidden screw in a house we'd violated.  Nearly thirty all told, I 
think.

But we never made love in this room, in this bed.  By then we were more 
interested in the pleasure the needle gave us than the pleasure we gave 
each other.

I don't think we even went upstairs.  I wish we'd gone up to screw our 
brains out, I wish all we'd cooked up that day was a pot of tea.  I 
wish, I wish, I wish.

It's a nice bed.  King-sized.  Modern lines, geometric print.

I wondered if you'd want me to be all naked for you, or you'd rather 
play peek-a-boo.  I decided to leave my clothes on; the house was 
warming up, but it was still a bit cool.

The frail winter light was fading, and it was even darker in the bedroom 
than it had been in the living room.

I lay diagonally across the expanse of the bed.  With my eyes closed 
tight, I could easily imagine you there.  You'd be leaning against the 
closet door, smiling that little half-smile that always made me melt.

I didn't think I could hold out for much longer.  I teased myself a 
little with the vibrator.  I slid it up under my sweater to tingle my 
breasts.  I pressed it briefly against my clit, but I was feeling too 
sensitized for much of that.  I switched it off and laid it aside.

I spread my lips with one hand and strummed my hand across my clit with 
the other.  I could see you so clearly now, in my mind's eye.  You 
disrobed, slowly, teasingly.  You had trouble tugging your shorts down 
because you were so hard.

And you lay down curled on the bed beside me, your ankles in the pillows 
and your gleaming eyes intently watching my moving fingers.

And I didn't, no I didn't, feel the bed sag a little just then.  I 
rolled around a little, lost in my pleasure, that was all.

But still, I gasped your name aloud in the empty house.

And as I lay there, playing with myself on the bed in the house where -- 
all right, I can face it now, where you died, eight years ago today -- I 
felt something on my pussy very much like the touch of a tongue, your 
tongue -- which I recognize instantly, just like in all the books and 
movies.

It was just overworked nerves, of course.  Too much stimulation, a 
hyperactive imagination.  But I kept my eyes shut tight, so tight.

I reached out my hand, and it was surely my little green dildo that my 
hand closed around.  Slipped out of the satchel, perched on a rucked-up 
bit of the comforter.

And if it felt warm and soft, well, I had turned up the heat, and it was 
supposed to be incredibly lifelike.  If it seemed to throb in my hand, 
that was certainly my own pulse.  Still, I wrapped my head just around 
the tip of it, my thumb rubbing the sensitive corona.

No one was nibbling tenderly at my pussy lips.  Nothing supple and wet 
slipped inside me there.  I didn't feel a feather touch caressing my 
nipples, just the fabric of the sweater rubbing against them as my lungs 
heaved.

Still, I didn't open my eyes.  I kept rubbing my clit, almost fiercely 
now, as I felt my orgasm rising up in me.

When I came, I screamed your name over and over.  If there had been a 
whisper in response, I screamed much too loudly to chance hearing it.

And as I drifted off to sleep, I just dreamed the nutty smell of semen 
hanging in the air, just dreamed your lips pressing gently against mine.

When I awoke, I didn't remember any other dreams, and even in the gloom, 
there was no doubt that I was quite alone.


So that's the end of it.  Nothing left but to wash up the tea, shut off 
the gas again, turn the thermostat back to frigid.  I need to slip out 
before the widow across the street gets back from her bridge club.

And probably, by the time the owners come back from their vacation, the 
essence of my -- of our -- sex will have dissipated after all, leaving 
no trace of how I tarried here, in thoughts of you.

Goodbye, my love, my love forever,

Maggie


-- Meme Misspelt
-- http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/meme_misspelt/www/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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