Dear Meg,

I haven't heard from you in a few days and I thought of you constantly-- so much so that I felt it necessary to write. Not completely from wanting to reach out to you once more; could be more as a relief valve that I might not burst apart inside. I still haven't completely gotten over your note of the other day. The 10th, I believe it was. 

Of course I sensed the tone of your words as I read through it but I wasn't quite prepared for the conclusion. Even that word itself makes me shiver. I want to leave myself to try to see what is happening more objectively, but even if I could examine myself in a more complete fashion I believe I would hesitate to do so. I would be afraid of the banality and weakness there to admire.

I'm sorry, I see I'm having trouble writing already. Little Meg, I will continue this later. 

wanting you,
Patricia

Dear Meg,

I used to laugh whenever people advised to wait a bit before sending an email, to reread it, to keep troublesome passions in check. Five months of mail has passed between us and I have never done that-- until today, until I wrote the letter I replaced with this one. Please don't wonder about it. It would have made you sad, Megliss, and I don't want that for you. 

I took a glass of chardonnay to bed with me and I began remembering us, like snapshots, moving a little, each one. Wow, that sound that came from me the first time you kissed me-- on my neck, remember? So sensual. Well, that is you sweet Meggie, a fireball with a very soft center. I love you, Meg, no matter what. 

The first time your fingers pressed so soft - like velvet, wet velvet - pressed between my legs, between my lips: if I had been standing I would have fallen over, my Lord! I was remembering the look you gave me as you adjusted the harness for our toy. It was a look showing desire for my pleasure as well as your own. I remembered how I nearly passed out when I saw your expression. I was remembering different little snapshots like that. I'd rather remember scenes like that, and have them add meaning to my life as I go on; rather remember them than this feeling of falling apart. 

You knew all along what it was, didn't you? I was just as confused about sex when I married B_ as some are clueless concerning love when going into wedlock. You knew I loved him, and knew part of me still ached. I never ever told anyone else about the women I loved, nor of the smaller group of women who loved me in return. I wanted you to know me. I will tell you more later. 

love,
Patricia 

Megliss,

Deep inside myself I am still a child. I can honestly feel my age as a coat thrown over my shoulders, attempting to weigh me down. It's not threatening, perhaps only awkward-- just an inane restriction. It's not the thing that keeps me from intimacy with B_. That can never happen again-- it's pointless. Actually, I think it is what helped bring you and me together to explore, to love. 

Nearly a lifetime's space between our ages cultivated a special place for us to grow together. There I was made young and tender by our liasons, and your youth was polished with new strength and possibilities. Perhaps age settles down upon one like the comforting, protecting weight of a coat, and youth gives one a shove in the direction of realizing dreams, no matter whatever youth wears. 

Because you are a woman-- a girl, really-- I can open myself to you completely when we are naked together. I always reserved a part of me when I was unclothed with B_ as if he could have sight of my body, but that was all. It had nothing to do with denying him anything. It was like, you know, pearls before swine. He could never understand the girl inside me, her wishes, her young dreams. Why enact beauty for an empty hall?

I know you well too, Meglicious. I know you can feel me when I begin to throw off that coat, when I surrender more than half my years to my girl Meg, who masters my life. Mmmmmm, you feel me, I know, feel me empty myself of myself and become a lovely extension of your desires, whether they be given to me through your lips and tongue, or through your little fingers, or the taste of our juices mingled together on our fingers, and at our lips.

I empty myself and I feel pleasure touch every place where I used to be, and it feels better than having myself there. That you can do this to me, that I feel it, and that you, sweetness, know how to do it to me, and know when I feel it. My heart and body reel in bliss and awe from your attention and my own surprising reactions. 

I know you can understand this, my lovely. B_ could never feel it as I approached this blessed emptiness, and so could never bring me to it; and I'm sure he would have missed it if I ever got there by accident somehow. Pearls before swine....

I hope there's nothing wrong with the mail tonight. Please send me back a short note if you received my last few emails. I'll understand if you're tired and can't reply in full right away. I must be tired too. Here I am going on and on about emptiness.

I'll write more later. I've just had an image of our pussies touching, grinding as we stare at each other, as our hips thrust upwards, our pussies in spasms as everything accelerates, letting our bodies drop while our thighs still shake and rise and fall. Now we can no longer see them, see our blank and molten stares at the ceiling and the walls, as I feel the wetness both inside and outside of myself, on my skin and my hair, and hear us, the sounds we make, the urgency. I want this again, our breasts together, nipples brushing....

Patricia 

Dear Meg, 

A few glasses of wine later and I was out. You know what the wine does to me. You know I took to myself imagining you. And after your fingers became mine once more I drifted off, dreaming of having you inches away from my face once more, breathing you in, tasting your sweetness as your tongue dipped into mine, dreaming of a dipping tongue, over and over.

I know you don't feel the same anymore. Don't feel slighted: I have been through this before. My other lovers were all girls too, either in years or at heart. I think that part of the attraction is also part of the recoil for us, as it was for them. The soul doesn't age, but it isn't always the soul moving us. I thought we would be different. I see how many times I write: I know, you know. I thought we KNEW things together. It might only be some of the pieces of us falling together by chance, while others would never fit, no matter what.

But you opened me. I was that little girl time and again when with you, Meggamuffin, and you knew it, and enjoyed it. It was never that way with B_, nor with my other lovers. I can't even describe it. This was like enjoying a clear sky or an ice cream cone when I was little. How this ability was put to sleep over the years, until you rubbed your little body against mine, and my passions took flight! You opened me, and I sighed, and then came a groan which grew to a trill ever stronger, then a gasp of breath as I peaked. Sometimes I used to think I could just look at you squeezing your nipples, exploring your sweetness, and I might climax, might be opened as I smeared myself on my own clit. 

And if you don't feel the same, how do you feel? Please tell me, my life, my release. I don't want to lose you yet, I know it will happen, I'm sure of it now. 

Do you long for my body at least, as a diversion perhaps? I could burn away much of my distress with your fingers travelling across my skin, our lips pressed together. There doesn't have to be any knowing; the flesh, the scented skin. We would want each other even then, wouldn't we? As we stood before each other covered only by our panties, as our eyes moved quickly over each other, directed by our lust: wouldn't heart rate increase, and skin warm to desire? Wouldn't we continue? 

I could hope for that, my Meg. You could be free to be with your Becky, perhaps to know her. I just KNOW that you enjoyed me, and you could still bring me to that treasured place-- emptiness? Is that what I called it yesterday? You become so strong and knowing, my dear little girl, when I see you from that distant spot. I cascade, wave upon wave from your touch, your pleasure, your seeking of mine....

I will keep in touch with you, of course. I still want to taste you, want to smell you, hear your voice, see your pussy pressed into mine, feel the connection of your tender thrusts. I still want you to feel me empty myself. I need someone to know who I am: what desire can be touched when all else is tossed away. I still want you, Meg. 

needing your body,
Patricia
 

Copyright © 2001 john e. All Rights Reserved. Do not post or copy without the express written consent of the author.