Tag: The Second Letter

Read to Me…

Woman ReadingI love being read to. I always have. When the weather turns cold, I love it even more. There’s something wonderful about being tucked in bed listening to the rain patter against the windows while your partner reads to you. Doesn’t matter what from, (though, of course, erotica is an excellent choice for such occasions). But really, it could be anything…except maybe a biology textbook.

My love of being read to segues naturally into a love of reading to other people. I’m just as happy being the one with the book in my hand as I am listening to the words drop into the chilly room.

I wrote both of these stories for contests run by Exhibit A, and both were inspired by photographs taken by the absolutely lovely Happy Come Lucky. They’re also both quite short. I’m not going to lie – that’s the main reason I chose to record those two in particular. My vocal cords aren’t up to professional scratch, so short and sweet seemed the way to go the first time out.

If you want to read along with either “The Second Letter” or “Drive”, you can find them in the drop down menu under Erotica. I’ll also embed the recording for each story on its respective page. In the meantime, get a cup of tea, or whatever suits your mood, curl up and relax. I want to read to you.. xx.M

THE SECOND LETTER

DRIVE

 

The Second Letter

I have sent you the letter that I want to you to see. It is practical and wise, full of smooth, measured lines and things that are best for us both.

I am now writing you the letter that I wanted to write. It is not smooth. It is not measured. I am writing on my skin, down the length of my leg and up again, higher and higher, to my warm, wet cunt and the hollow places that you kissed. I will start at my hip and scrawl, “To my Love,” on that curved, hard bone. I will write of the silence my tongue couldn’t fill; of the ugliness and  envy I swallowed just to keep your taste in my mouth. I understood your responsibilities, your conditions, your life. I embraced my confinement in a small, lush room.

I was your escape you said as you kissed my thigh. It was creamy and white when you did—not smeared with ink, but clean and sweet, a tactile expanse of improbable trust. Your words poured into my skin and diffused, filling my cells with your precise, exacting love. Alchemy. Magic. I became an extension of you.

You cast a spell with every lick and bite. Every time your fingers drifted between my thighs, in bars and restaurants and cafes and streets; every time you found me wet; every time you sucked my breast through my thin, cotton blouse, I lost an inch of myself. More ink on my skin.

You love me, you love me.

Your words seeped, slow and profound, until I lived for your teeth and the thrust of your cock. I became an arching back, a curving neck, a gaping, needy cunt. I was a response to the words you scrawled on my skin with your rich, invisible ink—a room, a haven, the bottle and the djinn, a pretty little box….

I have sent you the letter I want you to see, one written by a woman who no longer exists. Now, in the quiet of my lush, little room, I cover my skin in my very own ink, thick and black, from my pen. Once every kiss is covered and every lick and bite obscured, I will wash the ink away in a claw foot tub—the one we shared last Spring in a hotel I won’t name, because the distance between then and now hurts.

You are in me and on me. Your name is in my bones. I will soak and scrub until it dissolves, and the water and ink go cold. I will write until I am calm. Because I am not calm. I am not calm. I am not calm, my Love. I am the product of your words.

Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.

And lastly, thank you to Happy Come Lucky, whose image inspired this story, and to Exhibit A for hosting the Sinful Stories Competition and for selecting this story as the winner.

© 2017 Malin James

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