I hope you don't jump when you feel his hands on your hips, strong, firm but appreciative of your feminine softness. Your breath catches as he slides them up to your waist, slowly mapping the curve, then his fingertips reconnoiter the path around your midsection. His big, meaty paws come up under both of your breasts at once, lifting gently from beneath. His thumbs, strong but well-manicured, caress lightly just below your deep red aureolae, the contact teasing, and your nipple begins to harden before he even contacts them.
I hope your pleasure is sparked, running currents down to your inner core as he catches those buds between thumb and forefinger, rolling them, squeezing to the point just touching pain but still pleasurable. I hope the moan comes from the depths of your sexual presence. It has to be real, it has to be genuine. It...has to be.
When his hands slide away, the right slides slowly down across the softness of your belly, fingers sliding down, down through your bush to slide right down between the swelling, wet lips of your womanhood. I hope you flood his hand with the evidence of your rising passion.
When his left hand turns your head towards his, and his lips close on your own, I hope you kiss him back with all of your passion. I hope you're moaning your approval of his controlling touch as you respond to his fingers below, two of which are now venturing in and out of you wetly.
And when the time comes, and he bends you forward, your hands on the bed, your stance spreading instinctively, your divine full ass pushing back and up, beckoning him to take you, I hope his entry again robs you of breath as he fills you, stretching your clutching, hot tunnel. I hope he takes you deeper, opens you more than I ever could.
As he thrusts, pistoning in and out of your hot, wet core, I hope you are able to finally abandon yourself to lust, driving yourself back against his commanding cock, fucking him just as much as he is fucking you. I hope you experience orgasm after orgasm, something you could never get with me. I hope the pleasurable waves crash over you time and time again, culminating in a last one even as he succumbs, his cock throbbing inside you as he floods you with his potent, hot seed.
As your convulsive pleasures crash into each other, and your heart releases, finally lets go of the guilt, the restraints, I feel my own bondage begin to melt away. I begin to taste something new, something I have not felt in a while: Hope. Hope for me.
As your mutual pleasure begins to ebb, I hope you melt into his embrace, your kisses generating the special connection that lovers enjoy after the physical bliss. I hope you let yourself go into that. I hope no guilt taints the magic of that moment, because I know that for you, that connection is important, more vital than the physical pleasure you just experienced.
And when you finally remember me, I hope you feel the love I have for you, love so deep it would have gladly endured the anxiety, the fear, the inadequacy for the joy of seeing you afforded such pleasure. I hope you understand my love, and why I wanted this. My heart's desire, my obsession with seeing you surrender to the throes of ecstasy, it is this which relentlessly holds me, even now.
I hope that pleasure, that warm glow from inside out, bears you through your new life. I wish I could have seen that hope bear fruit while I was alive. I rise, a small tear, then another, christens the chair, unseen by the living lovers, my last gift before my spirit departs. My business here is done; the ball and chain of my desire for your pleasure finally fallen away from my ankle after 4 years. I've spent my last Halloween, haunting and haunted.
