Message-ID: <5542eli$9711081813@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: David Durkee Subject: Repost: Letters: Laura (m/f/romantic) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <345F782E.31BDF31E@tecs.com> Previously posted to A.S.S. Let me know what you think. All comments appriceated. david@tecs.com Laura: I've been thinking alot about yesterday. You know, our conversation as to why you are so dissatisfied with Tom, and mine bemoaning the fact that all the "good ones" are taken. I know you aren't willing to make a change, even though you know it will never work with that 37 year-old child you live with. Breaking up your (un)happy home seems impossible at best, with finding a new place to live, splitting up friends like negotiable possessions, finding someone new. Sleeping alone. Sometimes living with the mess you're in seems easier, even though you know it can't last. I remember when you first started questioning your relationship with him. We had been friends for ages, and I treated you more like a sister than anything else. It was no surprise that you had started talking about your dissatisfaction in this relationship with me, before anyone else. After all, I have spent time bitching about my lovers with you, it seemed only fair. You were different though. While I talked freely about what bugs me, you kept these things mostly to yourself. Remember? You had just gone to meet Tom's parents at Thanksgiving dinner, and he purposely taunted you in front of his family about your job, your hair, and the dress you had chosen. The last part I took personally, as you and I had gone shopping to find "The Dress" that would make him proud of you. It was probably my fault, as you thought it was a little too sexy for meeting his parents for the first time, but I (as usual) played down the obviously sensual look that it gave you, and just said it made you look so pretty. After going on to find shoes and a purse, we had finished it off with pearl earrings to match your necklace - for that elegant touch. My favorite part, though, was shopping for your lingerie. We got so many dirty looks when I snuck into the dressing room area, to "give my opinion". Everying I brought to you made you blush, and everything you wanted was too conservative. It seemed like you were still embarrased about the dress, and it's lack of concealment, and were determined to make up for it in finding something that was rather prim. In the end, I'm glad I got my way, but he didn't deserve it. I wanted stockings and garter belt. You wanted pantyhose. I wanted the black merrywidow with the lace thong panties. When I brought them to you, grinning, you pushed me back out on the showroom floor rather unceremoniously with the comment "not on your life..." I thought about it for awhile, as I usually have been given high marks for the lingerie that I have selected for my lovers. Then I found it. The black lace catsuit with a scoop neckline, cut low in the back, but still giving the illusion of keeping your body pretty much fully covered. You liked it and when you came out of the dressing room, you were blushing slightly. "It has an open crotch", you whispered to me at the register. When I grinnned and said "I know!" quite aloud, the girl working behind the counter shot me a "just go check into a motel somewhere" look. I never got to see it on you, but in the end, neither did he. The comments about your job, and your decision to work as an artist, rather than persue a career in law or some other blood-sucking profession were at best, childish. You said that even his mom got on him about it at the table, in front of everyone, which I'm sure prodded him on even further. I can't believe that he attacked you about your hair. Your hair is lovely, both in color and length. But he is so used to working around boring corporate clones that he couldn't pass up the opportunity to attack the length of your hair. I think the comment was someting like "well, for her thirty-second birthday, she has promised to lose the high-school girl fantasy, and cut her hair to more of a professional length". Every time I see you walk away from me, or whenever we are at the movies or something, I catch myself looking at your lovely, long hair. He is such an asshole. Last year when you two were looking for a place to live together, I thought it might be cool to have you live in the same building as I did, but there are downsides as well. I also remember hearing the fight you two had when you came home that night. I told you that I had heard you fighting as I walked in the door from grocery shopping, but the truth is that I stopped and listened for quite a while. I shouldn't have because it made my blood boil. He was talking down to you, childishly mocking you, until I heard you sobbing. Then I heard him say that you had purposely "dresed like a slut" to meet his parents. I took that a bit personally, but I know that it really pushed you over the edge as I heard your bathroom door slam and lock. Old buildings don't leave much to the imagination. I know you think it's all your fault. You have tried your best to do different things that would please him, just so he would love and accept you. But he likes to keep you on a leash, jerking on it occasionally just because he can. I have also been thinking back to last Labor Day, when we were out on your sundeck trying to have a fun barbeque. Tom was "working on a brief" at his office (yeah, I bet) and couldn't make it to the romantic picnic you had carefully planned, and as my date had cancelled on me, we were left alone. We were on your balcony and you were sipping a beer while looking over lower Pacific Heights. You had your arms crossed on the balcony railing, with your head resting on them, talking to me as the barbeque sizzled. The warm breeze was not only blowing your hair around, but the bottom of your short t-shirt as well. From the angle I was sitting at I found myself staring at the full, heavy swell of the underside of your breasts. Yes it was hot enough to negate the wearing of a bra, and we knew each other pretty well, but I had never seen this part of your body. I had been listening to you talk, and all of a sudden I lost track. You were kind of rocking back and forth slowly, almost like in a dream. I was riveted. But here I was lusting after my best freind's breasts, and it suddenly felt kind of, well, incestuous. I probably would have reveled in my depravity for another few hours, but you suddenly turned around to find out why I wasn't answering your question. I know you saw where I was looking as I saw your face blush a little, but you didn't seem to mind. It was a moment that I know both of us (yes, you too) have pondered from time to time. It was the first time we had really acknowledged the possibility of being sexually interested in each other. Those feeling have gone on for me still. I have heard your private times as well, and I have to confess to listening in occasionally after the day of that fight. It's a shame you never seem to get the satisfaction that you want. I did hear you having an orgasm once, but it seemed to trail off before you were ready to. I know you have heard me too, with me living on the floor directly above. Susan was kind of a noisy lover, but I also know the dirty look from Tom was directed mostly at me when he commented on hearing "our little party" one following morning. I know I'm really loud, but sex is a very deep and visceral experience to me. I am trying to learn to put my face in the pillow at the critical moment, but the thought usually escapes me. Other things get to me about you. Like helping you do your laundry. Your taste in lingerie has changed a little since we have started shopping together, and I have seen much of it in the store as you pick it up off the rack and hold it up against you, but it's so much different after you have worn it. Don't think of me as sick, but it is different. It has been against you, held tightly against your body, the warmth of your breasts and your private, clean smell becoming part of it. While we are doing your laundry, I picked up a pair of your panties as you are chatting away and I found my fingers touching the waistline where it lay against your belly, then touching down to the panel that has been pressed against your sex. I think at times like these that this is as close as I will ever get to touching the wet, slippery, soft lips that I want to touch so badly. But there is also your jog bra. Simple and black. But it isn't the color or the cut, it is the fit. I know how it looks stretched tighly over your breasts. Those sweating, heaving breasts, heavy, wide and firm. Once you asked if I thought they were big enough - that silly girlie question that you punctuated by sqeezing and lifting them. My answer was one that any friend would say, as it was from the heart, but in actuallity it was tinted with a little lust. "Perfect" I said while staring quite directly. Even now I can feel that warmth inside me building as my fingers stretch and pull on the material. God it's strong. It emphasizes the size and weight of your breasts, knowing how easily they stretch that material. Then there are your jeans. Ordinary and kind of worn, but obviously your favorite pair. Mine too, but for a different reason, the reason of a tiny hole in the back above the right hip pocket.. The hole is so small I probably couldn't get my little finger through it, but watching you walk back and forth in your kitchen in these jeans, the ones with this hole, always drives me nuts. It quietly screams "I'M NAKED UNDER HERE!!!" as I can see your soft skin showing where your underwear should be seen. Of course, you could be wearing panties. Thong panties. Doing laundry with you always brings up that question in the back of my mind that all guys ask themselves when secretly lifting a pair out of thier girlfriend's lingerie drawer to touch and smell. How the fuck do you fold these things? Tom seemed to pick up on those as well, asking if you were wearing them as "man-trapping equipment". You explained to him that when a woman has a round ass like yours, that ordinary panties end up bunched up between your cheeks anyway, so why not start with a small piece of fabric? Leave it to him to turn your choice of lingerie into another way to degrade you, rather than revel in your sexuality, to be happy that his lover has a feminine, curvy body. There are things you don't know about me. I mean we have flirted a bit, and played little grabass games, but you really don't know what I think about when I'm with you. I know you shave, for instance. At least you used to, before you met the asshole. We were laying in the sun on the beach in Santa Cruz a couple of years back and I looked over just as you lifted the waistband of your bikini bottoms to check your tan. I don't think you noticed me looking, because you held them out from your belly for a couple of seconds. I saw the baby-smooth skin where some fur should have been and the beginnings of your soft cleft. You dont know it, but that image has been burned into my brain ever since. That was a really special moment for me, one that I keep all to myself. There also was that night with the three of us, long ago. No, not with the prick, it was before him, remember? I was refering to the night that your friend Cindy was in from Los Angeles, and you brought her over to meet me. We all hit it off right away, but the fun started when she said that she wished she had "a fattie" to light up. I grinned and reappeared with a small pipe and my stash. We all passed it back and forth while watching HBO until the only thing that was on our collective minds was Pizza. It wasn't just the grass and the Pizza though, we were getting, well, sort of..friendly. She was sitting on my left,and you were on my right, and I was in the center. Or should I say that I was in heaven? Apart from the giggling, everything was kind of under control, until Cindy went to use the bathroom and passed my hall closet containing my videotape collection. I thought she had "fallen in" or something, so when I went to check where she was, I came upon her sitting in the middle of a large pile of porno tapes, looking over them and grinning like the cheshire cat. We popped one in, remember, and immedidiatly started laughing hysterically. First it was the Casio humpin' music. Then it was the dialouge. Then the ever larger fake tits on the "actresses". And finally it was the close ups, the gynecologist's view of the human body. I started going on about how these movies were made, and how I wanted to direct films, and how the director would be talking the camerman through this part - calling the shots. Just as Cindy lit the pipe and drew in a lungful of smoke, I pointed at the screen and croaked "MONSTER SHOT!". That closeup did kinda look like something out of "ALIEN", but we all started laughing uncontrollably again, with Cindy choking and coughing through it all. Time seemed to stand still that night on my couch, but I distinctly remember ending up across both of your laps, with my head under Cindy's t-shirt. As I licked and sucked on her nipples, you got very quiet. And although I was stoned, I remember one of your hands stroking gently up and down my thigh but I felt the other, discreetly busy under the leg of your loose shorts. The "actors" were still screwing away in front of us, Cindy was breathing heavily and squirming in her seat, but it was you I wanted to drag off into the bedroom. The pot started to wear off and our senses came back a bit, at least long enough to realize where we were all heading. But it hadn't worn off enough to keep Cindy from going to the bathroom and masturbating loudly as we giggled in the next room. Whenever I look back on that night, I always wish we would have just let go. You don't also know that I have wanted to go down on you. Badly. I suppose that in light of my previous words, it might seem obvious to most people, but it goes beyond that. You know that I love to... well, fuck. Screw, hump, hide the salami - if I'm going to delve into this territory, I might as well start speaking about this truthfully, and not edit anything. After all, you're a grown up woman, right? And you're not going to read my journal - Remember David, this is just an exercise in verbalizing your feelings. Anyway, I had this girlfriend when I was young (well, 20 does seem young when you turn 36) who wouldn't allow me to just "get on and get off". She taught me to take time to please her, and what a great teacher she was. She would set a small clock in front of us and force me to take at least one-half hour to just caress her body. At that age it was an eternity, and I was kind of pissed at first, but she would also do the same for me. When I slowed down, sex became kind of like being drugged. She would lightly caress my back, my legs, drag her hair across my chest and so on. I would then reciprocate, but I'll tell you at that age, fingers lightly across my back for long enough could have almost set me off. She eventually got rid of the clock, but the time was still spent. It was wierd because I would go soft while this was happening, even though at that age I had an almost constant erection. It was like my body knew that we would eventually get to "having sex", so my (what word do I use here) "cock" would relax. She was great with her mouth, too. I had a bad experience in high school where a girl had wanted to go down on me, but threw up when I came in her mouth. I found out afterward that it was her first time doing that, and the surprise along with her nervousness caused her stomach to react. She felt bad, but I felt alot worse, as I got the impression that that my semen was really undesirable, almost to the point of being toxic. But my patient and understanding lover got me past that, so I wanted to return the favor and learn how to be really good at it giving her head. I did become good at it, but more than that -I loved it. She taught me that the human body is clean, that I could lick, suck, and nibble anywhere. She taught me how to take my index and middle fingers and slide them into her pussy slowly, how to curve them upward to find that special spot just behind the bone, and how to press and circle the area while gently sucking on her clit. I would also lick with little butterfly-like licks with the point of my tounge along the sides of her clit and on the top of the hood. I was kind of confused at first. I understood what the clitoris was for and how it was shaped, but taking my experience as a man (corelating with the most responsive areas on my cock and translating that onto the equivelent female parts), just didn't work. I found that licking the tip of her exposed clit was too sensitive for her. It was much better on the sides and over the top of the little hood. So I learned many things while listening to her moans, things which eventually helped turn those moans into the sharp cries and spasms of her orgasm. I just wish I could do these things to you, smell your sweet smell, taste your wetness and hear you cry out in pleasure. I would love to feel your muscles sqeezing my fingers over and over again in the primitive rhythm. I hear you sometimes in your apartment at night with Tom. I know you are a private person, but I know you have a very strong physical side. He isn't that good to you, but you keep on trying. Once I remeber hearing him come and you were quiet throughout, so I surmised you were sucking him off, and then I heard your voice (God, now I'm starting to sound like some obsessed pervert, but the walls really are thin) asking him quitetly to do the same. His response was to fuck you instead, as I heard the bedsprings and his grunting. Afterward you went into the bathroom and took a shower. How do I know? I heard him on the phone talking football stats to his buddy, and bragging that he had "banged you twice" (lie) and that "you were screaming the whole time" (bigger lie). Meanwhile you were in the shower washing him off and probably using that shower massage for what it was designed for. Remeber that day when I brought one home from the store, and you were watching me install it? You asked if it really worked well, and although I knew you were meaning the relaxation of tired muscles, the grin I gave you said that you didn't understand all of it benefits. I tried to explain about turning the pressure water down a bit and holding it in "a more specific area", but your blush said I shouldn't go on with the explaination. However, I did notice that you had got one a few weeks later when I used your bathroom. You know, I can imagine it too. You standing, leaning against the tile wall, soaking wet, knees shaking. One hand gripping the handle and the other squeezing your breasts, nipples dark and full. Steam in the air, your breath coming raspy and short, eyes tightly closed. Over and over those muscles inside clench, your hips humping the air in front of you until you reach a point where you feel you are almost not going to make it, teetering on the brink. Then it happens, shockingly powerful, and undeniable. It is strong enough that you can't stop and you cant get enough, and you keep the pressure on that spot, that perfect little spot, until you realize where you are, and the water suddenly feels cool as your body flushes. Sound familiar? I just wish I could be with you when you do it. I don't know here this is going to go. Many nights I write in this little book, many days I see you, most of the time I wonder if you know. Know how I feel. In my fantasies, I could tell you these things, throw you over the back of my couch and take you from behind, slamming my hips against yours and feel your hips pushing back against me hard. Doing your part to get what you want. The screams I would hear as your orgasms rip through you while I feel your pussy slickly stroking my cock, begging me to shoot my come deep inside your body. Feeling the aftershocks, little tremors as the great God orgasmus reminds us that contol of ourselves is something we very tenuously hold onto. The scent of sex around us. The taste of our sweat. The tears in our eyes as the words "I love you", spoken many times in friendship, take on a new meaning, sealing our hearts together. But I am afraid. You are my best friend and I couldn't stand losing you, even if it means having to keep this in check for a little more time. I'm afraid, but also not sure. Would you want me, Laura? -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /