This Is Not A Love Letter

I never saw myself in my own fantasies; I couldn't bear it. I didn't see myself as someone who ought to be in those situations. When I made myself come, it was always to faceless men and women in whatever roles I wanted them to be in, saying and doing the things I wanted to say and do but never felt like I could pull off with confidence. Maybe I didn't really want to; I had no one in my life whom I craved to be naked with behind my eyelids at night.

Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I might love you, this is not a love letter.

This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.

You've no idea how I feel. Past experiences have taught me patience, how to hunt love like a panther, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you to want it too, as badly as I do. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked. This is a game I'm out to win. I'm playing for keeps.

This is not a love letter. This is a confession.

You turn me on effortlessly and you don't even know it. I sit behind my desk at work, pretending to be engrossed by the blinking cursor on the screen with my knees pressed together. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.

This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want. I can see me straddling you in the driver's seat of your vehicle, my pants halfway down my thighs and your fingers pushing inside me as I moan your name and grind against your hand. I see you rubbing my clit as I ride you into oblivion atop your unmade bed. I can see me naked on my knees, sucking your cock in the shower. I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.

You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine when I'm on my lunch break. I smoke at the bar and imagine climaxing around your cock, the muscles of my cunt milking you dry. I can hear my own screams in my head. We fuck in the bank line. The gym. On my ride home from work. I walk around all day with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life. If I didn't optimistically believe that the act of actually having you in the way I want was at the finish line of all this fantasizing, I might want this heady, delicious torment to last for always. I believe you can give me exactly what I need.

This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.

I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.

I want to enthrall you as much as I believe I can. I want you to crave me so badly that I'm all you think about when you're alone and you're fisting the purplish head of your cock. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy when my lips are wrapped around your cock. I bet you're beautiful when you come: back arched, fingers curling, groaning softly. Curl your fingers for me. Arch your back for me. Say my name.

We could be good together, I know it. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache so much I could cry. Yes, we could definitely create something amazing together, like our future.

This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.

Lux Zakari spins an erotic web of sensuality with her writing...for more, visit her home on the web by heading to www.luxzakari.wordpress.com

Babes Illustrated: Generation XXX