Dear You,
I know you didn't want to hear from me ever again – no more contact, you said - but here I am. I didn't believe you, you see. I think you
do
want to hear from me. I think you're suffering from guilt. So was I, at first; for the first couple of weeks, actually. But the guilt has gone now. I enjoyed what happened and you enjoyed it, too. I know that. So why the guilt? You needed comforting and I was there to offer that comfort. You might not want me to do this, but let me remind you of what happened.
You had just had Peggy, your little dog, put to sleep and you were crying. You rushed to me for a hug as soon as I walked in the door and I gave you a kiss on the cheek. You pulled back from me slightly, still in my arms, your eyes red-rimmed from crying and I kissed you on the lips. Just a peck, and just to give you comfort, as I said. The peck turned into a proper kiss as you leaned back into me and pushed your mouth hard against mine. I never thought about it. Didn't consider the possible consequences of what we were doing. I should have realised that nothing would ever be the same between us again. I responded and pushed my tongue into your open mouth. Our tongues twisted together, our mouths moved against each other and I could feel your hips grinding against mine. I felt myself hardening and tried to pull my lower body away from you but you would have none of it, pulling me harder against you.
When the kiss ended, we just looked at each other, neither of us saying a word. Then you took my hand and we went into the sitting room. I must have been in a state of shock. This was about the last thing I expected. Sure you're a good-looking woman; beautiful even: slender, yet with a great figure and very shapely legs. A little prim and proper, that's for sure – I've never heard even the mildest profanity from you - and not one to dress even remotely provocatively. Your skirts and dresses are always knee-length or, at most an inch above the knee and your necklines never show the merest hint of cleavage. You wear your light brown hair shoulder-length and your make-up is always conservative. I guess all these things are the outward signs of twenty-eight years of married respectability.
The sun was streaming through the glass patio doors as we sat side by side on the sofa, you on my right. You crossed your legs, looking demure, like any respectable housewife. I put my right arm round you and drew you close and we kissed again. Your skirt had ridden up to show a glimpse of thigh sheathed in dark pantyhose. Your arms came round me again, your hands in my hair, your fingers digging into the back of my neck. I put my left hand on your right breast. You whimpered and I took my hand away, thinking I'd gone too far, but you took that hand and put it back on your breast, pushing it harder against the mound. I took the hint and pushed harder still, rotating the palm of my hand against the firm mound. Your lips left mine and the kiss that I thought would last forever was broken. You threw your head back, your eyes closed, your mouth open. Your chin was wet with saliva. I kept my hand where it was, still pushing, still rotating. I'd never felt so hard in my life. I kissed your throat. You moaned and I kissed lower, to where the top button of your blouse was undone. Then you sat up, moved my hand away. I thought you'd had enough. That we really had gone too far. But then you unbuttoned the rest of the buttons so that I could kiss lower and so that my hand would have easier access to your breast.
I stroked and squeezed you through your bra and for some reason the feel of the lacy pattern under my hand made my arousal almost unbearable. You helped my pull your blouse off your shoulders, your fingers frantically scrabbling to pull it free from the waistband of your skirt. And then there you were in your pink lacy bra, leaning back on the sofa, smiling at me, your arms out to me. Oddly, it seems to me now, your lovely slender legs were still crossed, though your skirt had ridden further up. I went into your arms, held you against me, feeling the heat of your breasts through the material of your bra and the cotton of my t-shirt. You reached back and unclipped the bra yourself, freeing your lovely breasts. And they
are
lovely; a slight droop after having a child twenty-five years ago, but still wonderfully firm and yet soft, the nipples large and thrusting out at me as I bent forward to take first one and then the other in my mouth.
Again, you moaned but this time I knew it was from pleasure. I pulled my t-shirt off and felt you crush your breasts against me. Now I could really feel the heat of your arousal, your nipples jutting hard against my chest. I kissed the side of your neck, nibbling a little as you your fingers kneaded my shoulders, your nails digging at my skin. I took my hand from your right breast and buried my face in your soft white throat. You tilted your head back and whimpered as I kissed and licked, and then you squirmed as my hand went to your leg, to the hem of your skirt.
Gently, very gently, I stroked upwards, using my fingers to tease the sensitive area on the back of your thigh. You uncrossed you legs. Or, rather, you lifted your right knee and turned to me, almost sagging against me as your leg draped itself over me thighs. Your leg was now off the sofa and I stroked upwards again, to the very top of your thigh. You turned your body even more, encouraging me to be bolder, to cup your right buttock in my hand and squeeze it and knead it – to enjoy that part of your body as much as I had enjoyed your breasts. Gently, but firmly, I pushed you back upright, allowing my hand to stroke across the front of your thighs as I did so. I rubbed your lower belly and then let my hand roam lower. You spread your thighs slightly and my hand went to your crotch. You opened your legs wide and thrust yourself against my hand, your breath coming in panting gasps and whimpers.
"Mmm, yes, please, please, please do that!" You said.
I obliged and stroked your mound through your pantyhose and tights. Your hips went up and down and then your legs closed, trapping my hand. I kept stroking with my fingers – my hand was held immovable by your legs.
"Open your legs," I commanded you. And you did, spreading them wide again. I took my hand from between your legs.
"Don't stop," you begged. "Please don't stop. I love being rubbed there!" I decided to play a game. I was so aroused, so hard that I thought I would explode in my jeans, and I didn't want that!
"Where do you like being rubbed?" I asked.
"Put your hand back; put your hand back on me. Please!" You were gasping.
"Where do you want to my hand?"
"Between my legs. On me!"
"What do you want my hand on?" I asked you.
