Laura And Don Pt 04

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Note to readers:

The first three parts of this story can be found in the Erotic Couplings category. For this part, the Letters and Transcripts category seemed to be a better match. Part Five, which will conclude the story, will be posted in the Romance category.)

*****

Don Pelfrey always hoped for a message from Laura, but he wasn't expecting anything from her as he touched up some brought-home work on Sunday.

He was surprised and pleased by notice of the e-mail, and puzzled once he read the content:

'Hi. I'm going to snail you something. Please reply, also by snail.'

This, from a woman who avoided getting personal in any electronic medium. Maybe she was making an exception for the potential anonymity of paper. If so, she was trusting him.

He thought,

So this is what it's like when two careful people in our situation start getting involved.

They were both young, skilled, and had good jobs. Getting their skills left them with large student loan debts. They focused on their careers, and on paying down their loans, accepting the near-term lack of personal life as they routinely brought work home, and living within tight budgets. They fit in one-night stands now and then, emerging without commitments—until they met each other.

They were still attracted after their hookup, and worried about getting distracted from their career focus. He had suggested spending a month physically apart, but communicating when time permitted, so they could get to know each other. Now she had developed her own approach to the communication.

We're still better off than a lot of people,

he told himself.

The people without steady jobs. I have nothing to whine about. So I'd better not whine to Laura.

He e-mailed back to her:

'You have piqued my interest, which will lead to anxiety, as I wait, because snail. I guess in the spirit of your information vacuum I shouldn't pursue this discussion in this medium. I'll still say this: Hello, nice to hear from you.'

She didn't reply back. So much for his winning charm.

Now he would have to pay close attention to his mailbox on the apartment block's ground floor, for something that would accompany utility bills, Eddie Bauer catalogs, and Bed Bath and Beyond flyers.

The letter arrived on Tuesday. He tore open the envelope while climbing the stairs. He was still a flight below his apartment when he stopped, head pulled up in surprise from what he saw on the paper. Not the content of the message, but the rendering. Squat block letters, all capitals, neatly aligned.

Maybe this was her normal handwriting. Or maybe she was departing sharply from normal, to cover her tracks. Don wondered if she'd worn gloves, so as not to leave fingerprints.

He waited until he was in his apartment and sitting down before he started to read.

'Hi. Please don't freak out, I just think this is the safest way to express myself about this. I took an architectural design course in high school, and that included drafting. I've always liked how the letters looked, so precise yet so strange. Go ahead, insert the obvious joke about me.

'It's been a week-plus and I'm still thinking about you in a way I don't think about other guys. And that's been true before and after I found out that you got someone else into bed over the weekend, and before and after I did the same. No, I'm not stalking you. There's this app called SylviBase, which a friend of mine insisted on reading to me. Women on the local dating scene review the men they sleep with. You're mentioned quite favorably, with an update from this past Friday. If none of this is true, you can say so, but it really doesn't matter. I was already planning to find a guy and take the edge off before I found out that you got busy without me.

'So I guess this is a topic we should resolve for certain. Now that we've both taken our business elsewhere, should we stay casual, or pledge chastity for the rest of the month? (With the definition of chastity to include self-pleasuring as needed. Come on, aren't we under enough stress already?)

'To balance what I've been told about your fling, here's a little about mine. He's an athlete, legitimately good at his sport, but not just a jock. He's about 6' 2". (No, I like you fine, height-wise.) He was a decent lover, but for a while we were at cross purposes, eventually working things out. He was visiting from out of town, and now he's gone. I have no regrets, and on balance I have no desire to repeat.

'This next topic is, I guess, what matters most to me right now: Please tell me honestly how you feel about me, and us. If you're getting over me, I'll have to find a way to do the same with you.

'Please snail me back, and soon. I'm not used to waiting days for a reply. It all feels so Jane Austen, I should get sealing wax and a signet ring.

'Yours in something like infatuation,

'Laura'

As he finished reading, Don realized that he was smiling. Even this small stack of text blocks made it seem like Laura was here with him. The pleasure was nowhere near as intense as what he had felt several ways and times with Rebecca Kowalczyk, who had shared his bed on Friday night (and who apparently told the tale on freakin' SylviBase). But the smile that he had now, he enjoyed as it persisted.

He sent Laura an e-mail:

'The snail has arrived. I will let it rest for a few minutes and then send it back to you, bearing a new burden.'

Writing the letter to Laura was now a high priority task, to be finished in time to shorten the mail delay, if possible. But first he looked into her letter again, and found her definition of chastity.

Sure,

he thought,

stress reduction, always a convenient excuse.

For a moment he imagined Laura reducing her stress. Then he remembered her doing just that.

He and Laura had met and hooked up eleven days earlier, each beguiling the other with wit and humor. While they were having sex, she had fingered her clit as he fucked her. It worked for her, and he didn't mind.

His cock flexed at the memory. Laura's short, neat pubic hair, his condomed prick gripped tight by her tunnel, the peach-toned skin of the large flat expanse of her belly, her left index finger pressing and circling her swollen clit.

Quickly he doffed pants and boxers. His putz rose stiff and red. He lurched out of his desk chair. Less than a minute later he was jetting spunk into the commode.

Again breathing normally, standing in the bathroom, clad only in a shirt, He began working out the content of what he would handwrite.

***

After she saw Don's e-mail, Laura checked her work schedule. She had sent her letter Sunday, from a downtown post office with a night drop, so the Tuesday arrival might indicate normal transit time. Thus, Don's letter could arrive Thursday or Friday, depending on where and when he mailed it. She had commitments and meetings late Thursday and Friday at her financial planning firm. She sent messages, seeking to opt out or reschedule. By the close of business Wednesday, she'd had only limited success. There were still events that required her presence on those days. So she couldn't get an early look at her snail mail either day.

It was nearly 7 p.m. when she got home on Thursday. Already on edge, she grimaced and stamped her foot to find no letter from Don within the clutter of junk mail. Thinking that she had gone overboard, she made herself breathe calmly as she climbed the stairs. It was probably too late in the week to plan any weekend gallivanting with her lady friends, and she was focused on this letter exchange anyway.

She found herself at loose ends that night. Before she could focus on the work she had brought home, she had to start drafting her reply to a letter she hadn't yet received.

On Friday, finding a letter from Don, her immediate reaction was more extreme than the one the night before: She grinned and jerked her head back, and may have yipped. On the way upstairs she was aghast.

How old am I?

she wondered.

Twelve?

In the apartment she went through her normal arrival routine, setting her messenger bag on the floor against the table that held her laptop, removing her jacket and hanging it in the closet, stepping out of her shoes and putting on thick slipper-socks.

At last she sat in her overstuffed chair, almost snuggling in, and opened the letter. Her first glance picked up a neat steady cursive in black ink. Then she let the images form into words.

'Dear Laura, and yes, I think I mean 'dear' literally,

'No, I'm not getting over you. I might never get over you. I don't think I want to get over you.

'Yeah, I used some weasel words there. It may no longer be possible, emotionally, for me to back out of this. But my lizard brain seems to insist that I leave the breadcrumbs, no matter how much I keep lurching ahead.

'Have I put this topic to rest? I have feelings for you. Strong feelings. Positive feelings. I miss you. I want you. I will not rule out changing my life completely for your sake. Just for writing that, I should have my yuppie credentials revoked.

'On to the matter of what we're doing now, this letter writing. I appreciate your confidence, and here's a suggestion to get rid of the (literal) paper trail. As much as I'd like to keep your letter, I'm willing to send it back to you. Maybe we could both have a read-and-return policy. I'm not personally worried about what happens to the letters I write, but I'll follow your lead.

'Next: Aforementioned lizard brain has tried to get me upset about what you did Saturday, while insisting that I play down what I did Friday. I guess we were a little fuzzy with the rules for the Month Of Separation. My sleep-around was in some ways similar to yours, in which I enjoyed the event and the company of my partner, and have no regrets (if in fact you weren't hurt by it), and afterwards still felt the same way about you as I did before. Which, as noted above, is I Am Not Over Laura Canfield.

'More on that: My motivation was selfish. Not only was it convenient for me to claim to myself that I had to bang someone else to find out how strongly I felt about you, but I even hoped that getting back into one-night-stand mode would in fact make me feel less strongly for you, so you'd be less of a distraction for me. I have to admit this, because I should be completely honest with you. If you get mad, hurt, or insulted because of this, and decide to dump me, I couldn't blame you. I just really hope you won't do that, and that you'll tell me how I can make it up to you.

'Just because I acknowledge my lizard brain, doesn't mean that I think it provides wise counsel. My rational, human brain, belonging to someone routinely nicknamed Belfry and Bats, accepts that each of us could (at this stage of our not-really-commitment) pursue and enjoy sex with other people. Even if one of us does that, and the other doesn't. Again, though, I don't want you to be hurt or uncomfortable. Abstract notions of equity and justice matter much less than the feelings of the affected people.

'I'm okay with 'chastity,' at least for now. Will you think less of me if I admit that I found myself, somehow, with much less stress, after reading your letter? And imagined you reducing your own stress? And recalled our cooperative stress reduction activity?

'This paragraph seems to follow immediately after the one before. The gap gives no indication of what happened between their respective moments of composition, nor why my pants are now on the floor.

'I still don't know you all that well, and I don't want to offend you. It seems, however, that this extremely private correspondence creates opportunities for free expression. You need not write anything provocative to me. I would merely like to share with you a list of activities I have drawn up. These have not yet happened, and upon reflection, I would like them to.

'Your hair is always very neat, even after strenuous activity. When you were fully nude, your forehead was still covered. I would like to nuzzle past your dark brown bangs and gently kiss this place which you keep hidden, while I run my fingers up through your tresses and massage your scalp.

'Your arms are very long and deft, and you use them well when you dance. I want to touch them, and find the places where touches please you. Light kisses, finger strokes, firm pressure in an embrace.

'I want to feel your breath against my skin as you sleep.

'Apart from some coffee and toast, we haven't eaten together. I want to learn what foods you like, and see you when you're enjoying a meal.

'I have no training in massage, but I hope to find ways to make you feel good that can justify me satisfying my desire to touch you. Only briefly, in your shower, did I see and caress the dimples above your buttocks. That was also when I most enjoyed the feel of your breasts, wet and soap-slick, as I pressed their bulk with my palms, and felt the stiffening of your nipples with my fingertips. That was what got me so hard then, my cock squeezed by your thighs and rubbed against your vulva by your hand. Even as I was spewing, grunting into your back, I felt a less physical thrill from knowing that the head of my prick against your clitoris, and my hands on your breasts, gave you such great pleasure that your voice went hoarse.

'There was another time lapse between that paragraph and this one. I don't seem to have any stress at all now.

'My only plan for the weekend is to wait around for your next letter, read it, and reply. Perhaps we'll both be experiencing 'chastity' over the weekend. Which may support our less amorous goals, as we spend on stamps rather than bar tabs.

'I hope this correspondence has served its purpose. Eagerly I anticipate your next missive, even if it does not leap as far beyond the limits of propriety as this one has.

'Yours to do with as you see fit,

'Don.'

Laura recalled having gnawed her lower lip while reading that he wasn't over her, and knew that her hand had later entered her undies. When she finished reading, however, she was surprised to find herself almost lying on her back in the large chair, with both legs drawn up, knees together. Her heart was pounding.

What the hell?

she thought, standing, legs stiff. She read back a few paragraphs.

Scalp? Arms? Watching me eat?

Carefully she freed her hand from her wet labia and set the letter on the table.

Just softening me up for the whoopee stuff. If he's just re-seducing, he's good at it.

Three minutes later she was nude in the shower, fondling a breast with her right hand, and with her left, thumbing her clit with index and middle deep in her cleft. The systematic, analytic part of Laura thought,

At least this crush isn't already a dead end. I'm swooning over someone who's swooning back, and wants to feel my breath when I sleep, for pity's sake.

The rest of Laura soared in a joy for which she saw no need for words.

She turned up the water, hoping it would cover the hoarsening of her voice.

***

Don had plenty of work to get through during the weekend, mining data for a client in advertising. With no letter from Laura in his Saturday mail, he was able to focus on the work, with breaks on Saturday and Sunday for workouts at the gym. He glanced at social media briefly. George Kitteridge, one of the alpha males in his bar-hopping group, snarked about how both Don and Arnie Mueller seemed to be out of circulation lately. Don decided not to snark back, about how George liked having less desirable guys around him as the group approached groups of women.

Laura's next letter arrived in the Monday mail. Partly, Don hoped that the letter wouldn't be such an obvious trigger for him to jerk off. Thinking that, he felt his prick enlarging as he climbed the stairs.

The drafting capitals made him smile, and also shift in his chair.

'Okay, I can call you 'Dear' Don, including the rarely-used meaning of 'dear' which is similar to 'expensive'. You're taking up a lot of my time, which is money. This should bother me more than it does.

'I'm not mad, hurt, insulted, or even surprised that you tried to make me matter less. I wanted to do that to you, too, but I didn't have that clearly in mind when I went out on Saturday. I thought things would be better if I could get you into the background. This just means that, in fact, your yuppie credentials are still secure. So are mine.

'You're right about sending back the letters, and I should have thought of this myself. You really are the smartest guy in the room, and I wish I were in the room with you. Sigh, 17 days and counting down. The thing is, I want to keep your letter, you naughty boy. (I engaged in a certain stress reduction activity after reading it.) Maybe I'll send it back later, but right now, it's what I have to remind me about the way you answered my question about how you feel. That means so much to me. There, since you admitted to selfishness, I can admit to vulnerability.

'Meanwhile, I trust you to keep my letters safe. If you choose, however, you may send mine back the next time you write something to quicken my heart rate. Just to make trouble, one of my goals in this letter should be to write something you won't want to part with. How about that I want to breathe on you while you sleep? I'm mocking you, of course, but for all I know a guy might have a thing for that.

'I'm smiling right now, thinking about how sharp you are, and how I have to stay on my toes and be just as sharp. Maybe that's not turning you on. Too bad, you just have to deal with me being attracted to your wit, more than to your abs, or to your chest hair that sometimes looks golden.

'Where was I? And why are my clothes on the floor?

'You really believed that, didn't you?

'I can't help it, I'm having fun. This means I feel better about this. I've progressed from worrying about how you feel to enjoying your continued 'presence' in my life (the presence of some paper, anyway). Your list of 'activities' was actually very sweet, and seemed heartfelt, if odd.

'Is it too early to discuss what we do when the month ends? Maybe you could spring for us to go to some high-end restaurant, so you can watch me eat, and then you'd spend the next month subsisting on microwave ramen to get back on budget. Be careful what you wish for, Belfry.

'Teasingly yours,

'Laura'

As with her previous letter, Don finished this one smiling. He was not tumescent, however, just happy. This was the Laura who had first caught his attention, witty and self-assured. She was this way now because he had admitted that he wasn't over her. He felt good that he had brought her back to smiling and having fun.

This meant that he no longer had to handle her with extreme care. His smile built to a wolfish grin.

Okay, Canfield, you've had your fun at the expense of my 'activities.' You want me keeping you on your toes? You, too, should be careful what you wish for.

Still fully dressed, with just enough blood flow to his groin to amp up his energy, he gathered scratch paper and a pencil to start a rough draft of his next letter.

***

Laura had a stellar start to her work week. She was focused and incisive, and she clearly enjoyed everything she did. Her supervisor noticed, and brought her in on a project that was more significant than the others she had. In her first meeting on this project, she made two suggestions that opened new possibilities.

She shrugged off the lack of a letter from Don on Wednesday, still riding a brainiac buzz from work. That had arisen from how she felt after Don's letter, but the feelings for him were mostly in the background now, both the lust undercurrent and what may have been greater emotional depth.