Author's Note: I wrote this as a letter to my brand new lover. It's not intended to be a literary masterpiece. Over the course of a month, my lover has cajoled me with his boldness and persistence into an affair with him, which we are just beginning. I wanted to let him know how graphically I imagine our future encounters.
If you disapprove of infidelity, even in the capacity of a fantasy, please DON'T read this and DON'T post your moral judgments as comments.
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I stand outside the door to your bedroom at the agreed-upon time, with my hand on the doorknob. Anticipation courses through me at what we are about to do. You have summoned me here to begin my first-ever affair. Neither of us has had a new lover in years. The others in our lives fade to the background for tonight.
In contrast to others I've known, you possess an intoxicating, breezy confidence and driving male assertiveness. You've awakened in me a forbidden and powerful lust, luring and coaxing and wearing me down, until I must have you. Or rather, let you have me.
Both nervous and eager, I turn the knob and enter the room. You're sitting in a plush armchair, wearing a business suit and waiting for me. I have on a simple, fluid black dress, with short sleeves, a deep V-neck, and a skirt that falls to my knees. I'm also wearing black stockings with a seam up the back, and black high heels. My hair is pulled up in a formal style, with a few soft curls left down to frame my face. I am adorned with a tiered, beaded black necklace and several jeweled rings.
You look me over thoroughly. My lifting and falling breasts give away my elevated breathing rate; their hardened nipples further betray my stimulation. You try to determine from your chair if I'm wearing underpants, but you can't tell.
Then you order me to come to you. I do, slowly, so you may watch me approach. As always, I am aroused and intrigued by your masculine self-assurance. I know you will do me no actual harm, and in fact plan to give me fiery pleasure, so I am free to thoroughly savor your primitive male dominance. Images of the things we will do to each other race through my brain.
Now I'm standing before you. You think about ordering me to strip, but you decide instead to use your own hands to take my clothing from me. You move forward in the chair, so that I'm standing between your knees. You put your hands lightly on my hips and slide them up, tantalizingly slow. You lightly run your hands up my sides, then up under my breasts, where you hesitate. You know damn well I'm ready to beg for you to touch them, squeeze them, pinch the nipples through the dress and the bra fabric. But you tease me, because you can and because you know it will make the pleasure that much sweeter.
You lightly run your palms up over the fronts of my breasts, continuing up to my collarbone and then leisurely down my arms. My skin prickles. My tiny, momentary disappointment that you've all but bypassed my chest evaporates as your hands leave my fingertips to cup my ass. Your touch is still light, but it roams. You're checking to see about the underpants: whether they're present and what type.