Dear Peter,
I'm so sorry, Peter. I'm sitting at a cafe, alone, writing this letter. It's been three days since I sent my last one, so I doubt it's reached you yet. It was cowardly of me not to tell you all the details. If we're to have any hope of reconciling I think you should know everything. No lies between us. I'll tell you everything so you'll trust me again. I apologize if this is hard to read, so please know that I still love you and want you. I miss you so much.
I'll pick up where I left off. Just after I dropped my dress, Michel undid his zipper and slid off his jeans. He was wearing red boxers, and his bulge was so sexy (bulge made my mouth dry). He knelt on the floor in front of me and started softly kissing my belly, trailing kisses as he went lower. He gave each thigh one last kiss then licked my cunt from bottom to top. I let out a loud moan as his tongue penetrated me (like I said, French tongues).
I put my leg up on the couch to give him better access. (I need you to go down on me like that sometime, maybe I can tell you how he did it). I came once, just from that, even before he put his fingers inside of me. He had to work a bit to learn how I liked to be fingered, and he took directions well. Soon he was fingering me with just the right curve to hit the right spot. I came again and moaned out his name. He stood up and kissed me. I'll admit it didn't even bother me to taste myself on him.
After that, he lay back on the couch and I slid off his boxers. His cock was thick but cute. He was already leaking precum and I asked if going down on me had turned him on. He told me that he loved seeing a beautiful woman orgasm as much as he liked making love to them. I've never liked the phrase "making love", but his accent made it sound lovely.
