Last night, as I spread myself to breaking underneath you and spilled every drop of my lust on the bed, my body shook itself, gratefully, in the shadowed completion of a night's desire.
You have this power over me, spawned by more than love or want. You control me, not just because I think I let you, but because there is something lacking in me that exists in you. You fill that void...like a perfectly crafted puzzle piece.
In the past, you have inquired of my deepest feelings for you. And, as you well know, it has not, to this point, been in my nature...or ability...to verbalize that which you have so keenly wondered. Occasionally, the words bubble to the surface, and fall across my unsure tongue or through inspired fingers onto the page. I have written you letters and poems...conversed with you at length - but how, Sir, may I ever really tell you what is in my deepest core? I'm not sure that I can, but let me attempt...let me invent a world in which my reality can experiment and play with the most serious of subjects.
You, Sir, will be the recipient of my letters. Read them, respond to them, keep them in a box under your bed, but do not speak of them. If you can follow this request, knowingly gazing at me from across a room, in which no one else will be aware of this correspondence, then I can assure you, your knowledge of my truest regards will expand greatly over this coming year.
This is my resolution...to put into words my devotion to you. To court you with my pen.
Your Lustful Literate
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