It is very curious as I am the verbal on of our pair and I am not a man known for his words. I stumble and falter, but impart my points and leave no question as to what I mean. You, on the other hand, speak through written flowers and textual summer breezes. This is your medium and I accept your offer with a zeal only someone wanting to understand the depth and breadth of his kingdom would. Reveal yourself for me as you would a rosebud, one petal at a time, stripping away the outside layers to expose the soft, tender things beneath.
How wonderfully metaphorical of you....and I do plan to reveal myself - moreso than I even do in our deepest conversations...one petal...one letter...one thought or musing or question or concern or anecdote... at a time - exposing the softest, tenderest...wettest and hottest...things beneath. It is curious...that I feel I might be able to open up to you this way, even more than I do when we are otherwise closely engaged. We tell each other so many things, share our secrets and dreams and fantasies, one providing the other always with the most eager and accepting audience.
You follow this introduction...your acceptance of my conditions...with a request to go beyond my devotion to you and indulge your curiosity regarding my deepest fantasies, of not only you...but others. I'm sure, my dear sir, that these letters will often tread the the darkest waters of my mind, submerging us both from time to time.
I will not beg you...I will tell you; write for me as you would to your own soul. Dote over me but do not neglect the portion of you that is incarnate of Eve. While I love you, I love the unrepentant trollop I see on occasion. I need both the love and the trollop to be the pieces that fit you so well.
I love you, I lust after you and you are mine,
Write for you as I would my own soul? I will attempt to fulfill your wish...and I will not lose sight of the many sides of my being.
For tonight, before I bid you adieu, a kernel...I had a thought this morning, as I drifted along amidst the crowds filtering to their various places of employment: if I lost you, I do not know how I would ever build a life with someone else. No one else could fill the shoes that you have worn these many years...their creases and uneven soles, their faded laces. And it isn't the love. It's the intimate way that we communicate and the way that we accept each other's true nature. Who else would accept my proclivity toward women...or my inclination toward submission...in the way that you do? And who else would I trust with all the secrets I have shared?
I suppose if these letters were ever published, the world would know. They would know so much about the inner workings of an average woman.
Maybe they need to know.
Always yours...in lust and love.