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Jason calls when he’s gone, but one of his few weaknesses is that he’s lousy at phone sex. It’s funny. He’s not the most verbal person in bed but he’s not exactly mute, either. On the phone he gets tongue-tied -- at least that’s what he says. I don’t complain, though, because he e-mails splendidly. My husband travels a lot. I knew that when I met him. It was fun in the beginning because he took me all over the world with him. He was busy during the day, but I could amuse myself and at night, I could give him something else to think about. Then he’d take an extra day or a weekend if he could and I’d take him to the best places I found while he was in his interminable meetings. But that time, I could not go. I was the first of many trips that would separate us. I lived for my e-mail, checked it obsessively, even when I woke at night, and when I saw his name appear in my mailbox, I dropped everything, hit the print button, and took his letter to bed. My Kerry, It’s not easy to get comfortable when you’re nine months pregnant. Jason bought me one of those six-foot pillows, and I made a nest for myself out of it, propping the whole construction against the headboard. Before I got pregnant, my favorite position for masturbation was to lie flat on my face, but that was no longer possible. No part of me was flat. The baby was everywhere, forcing his mother into a reclining half-lotus, working with a slightly different set of sensations, learning again how to make herself come. Marriage to a playful man who got hard when the wind blew had relegated solitary vice to a stopgap measure. That first long separation gave it new significance. I didn’t just want release. I wanted to be loved. I set his e-mail next to me so I could read without holding it. I needed my hands for other things: one toyed with a nipple and the other roamed over my huge belly. After I got pregnant, my stomach became a magnet for him. He caressed it, drew things on it, talked to it, kissed it, sang to it. Rubbing cocoa butter into it was his job and his alone. When the baby got large enough, Jason played with him, rubbing his back or tickling his feet through my skin. Even before I started to show, my husband would keep one hand on my belly when he fucked me, as if he were reminding himself of something. Our child was conceived in Rome. We had a room with a balcony, and I brought Jason out with a bottle of wine. He pulled me onto his lap and I took off his tie and rubbed his shoulders until the knots eased there and reformed farther south. He laughed low in his chest and fed me a mouthful of wine. “Do you know what I love about you?” he asked. “No,” I said, “tell me.” “You make all the bullshit disappear. I spend hours in meetings with these guys doing this dance that’s half seduction and half boxing match, and then I come to you and you bring me back to life again.” “Apparently,” I said, grinning as I traced the bulge in his trousers. It wasn’t his keys. He fed me more wine and his hands covered my breasts. “You bring me to life,” he repeated with a lazy, lecherous grin. “We’re in Rome, baby, and we’ll have a whole weekend when this is over. What are we going to do?” “I have a few ideas,” I said, unbuttoning his shirt. The hair on his head is blond, but everywhere else, it’s a carmely brown. He’s got a sprinkling of it on his chest, and I buried my nose in it, tonguing one nipple. I love the smell of him, moss and musk and amber with a bit of soap and cologne. I love the feel of him, too; his skin is like warm, humid satin and the muscles ripple delightfully just below the surface. “Like what?” he asked after a minute, somewhat indistinctly. He’s a firm believer in quid pro quo and very good with bra hooks. “I haven’t explored the city very thoroughly yet,” I said into his hair, “but I’ve found something here that you’re going to love.” “Tell me,” he said, his hands creeping up my leg under my skirt. “No way! I want to surprise you with it.” I unzipped him. One of the things I like about his suit pants is that it’s easier to get him out of them when he’s sitting down than it is when he’s wearing jeans. “I love surprises,” he groaned. By then, he’d discovered what I wasn’t wearing under my skirt. It’s been only a day, but I already miss you terribly. I miss everything about you, but what I miss most is being inside you. Sometimes I wish I could stay inside forever, but coming deep in you is so good that I can’t. That’s home to me, no matter where I am. I want to lie here on the bed, buried to the hilt in you, seeing your belly rising over me like the moon. I want to rest my hands on you, feel what we have created together. I hate being away from you, especially now. When you told me what we had done, I wanted you so much it hurt. You are my Venus. A lot of people forget that she had children, but she did, many of them, and each time, she would have looked like you do now, Love Incarnate. One look at you, one look at us together, and everyone knows what we’ve been up to and how I feel about you. I fuck you every chance I get because I’m crazymad for you. He played with me that day in Rome, drew me out, tormented me. By the time I took him inside, I was dying for him. I no longer cared where we were or who might see. The air was cool but he was pure heat and the sounds of the city vanished in his whispers. We had given up. We’d tried on our own for two years. When that failed, we saw the doctors, but they found nothing wrong with either of us. Then another year followed of drugs that made me sick, weepy, angry, everything but pregnant. Finally one day we got into a horrible fight, screaming blame and recriminations at each other. Enraged, he went through the medicine cabinet and flushed the pills down the toilet, and when it was over, we lay in bed and cried together, mourning. A month later, we went to Berlin, then Tel Aviv, and then Rome. So when he eased me down onto his cock, I thought of nothing but how he felt sinking deep into me, how it felt to grind myself in slow circles against him. He leaned back, his fingers digging into my flesh, his chest heaving, his eyes desperate. When he came, I thought of nothing but the agonized bliss on his face. I love to see him like that, when he is mine, totally, completely mine. I had no idea at the time how much mine he was about to become. I have to be up early tomorrow, but I’m dreading going to bed because you’re not here. I would give anything to have you beside me. Your belly is the sexiest damned thing I have ever seen and your nipples taste sweet. You’re going to be a mother because of me. When I look at you, all I can think of is how you got that way and I want to re-live that night over and over again. I want you now more than ever, and I have wanted you since I first saw you. I don’t know how I’m going to survive the rest of the week. It’s worse being in Amsterdam. Just a walk through certain parts of this city are enough to put you in a state of terminal arousal, and all I’ve got when I get back to the hotel is my hand. I want to cry knowing you’re on the other side of the ocean. But I’ll tell you something. When I close my eyes, you’re all I see. I need you. My hand slid from my breast, down over our sleeping child to my swollen, slippery clit. God, he wasn’t the only one! Even on paper, his lust for me made me ache for him in return and I needed to come, needed release. I didn’t know how I was going to survive, either. I let my fingers work, drifting from memory to his e-mail and back again, thought of how his mouth tasted, about how warm his hands were, thought of the way his eyes smoldered when he was hard. He’d been hard when he wrote me; it was there in every word. I would have killed to hear his footsteps on the stairs or to materialize in a certain hotel room in Amsterdam. I wanted that erection buried to the hilt in me. During my last trimester, especially after the baby dropped, I felt so open everywhere, as if my bones were moving aside to make room. I felt like a goddess, a big, sexy mama-goddess. It made me even hungrier for him, I wanted him inside me so bad, then I realized with a shock that he was and that he had been for the last nine months. With the shock came the first stirrings of orgasm, and when I came, the hand on my belly was almost, almost his. The baby squirmed a bit, then settled down, drifting off again in his private ocean. I felt the faint ripple of a contraction and held my breath. Jason told me that if I went into labor before he got back, he’d strangle me. But it was just a Braxton-Hicks contraction triggered by the orgasm. I’d been getting them for about a week, a sign that the waiting was coming to an end. As soon as I can, I will come home to you and we’ll celebrate
in the way we do best. Until then, I am… |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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