0 comments/ 10654 views/ 2 favorites Letter to My Wife By: BellaBestia C – You asked me to tell you what I remembered of our first time together. I tell you now that every time is like that first time. When I look at you, whether you are bathing our children or wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with the back of your hand, I can feel myself falling in love with you anew. So I will instead tell you what I felt and thought the first time I fell in love with you, the first time I saw you. When you drove up to the farm in the cherry-red Jeep I knew you were trouble. I knew who you were, your father was threatening to foreclose on the outstanding mortgage on my farm and had sent you to do the dirty work of taking inventory of the property. It shames me to say it now, but I resented you. I saw you in your business suit, arrogant and haughty, and so goddamn beautiful that I wanted to break you, to smash you into tiny pieces and leave you lying in the dirt at my feet. My fury at you and my desire for you bloomed the more we talked and the more I had to answer your stupid little questions. Do you remember? But they weren't stupid questions at all, I realize now, they were clarifying, bringing me back to the real and simple reasons I struggled to keep the farm for so long. You knew I loved this farm, how it was my only connection to my family, to a real life, and you just wanted me to realize it too. But oh god how I hated you. The more I thought about you the more I resented you, an endless agonizing circle. I couldn't sleep that first night you stayed, knowing you were just down the hall. I would try to sleep, but dreamt instead of your dark hair in a mad tangle on your pillow, of you throwing off blanket and sheet in the non-air conditioned room at the height of a steaming August night, and I would wake panting. I must have been a horrible sonofabitch the next morning, but you paid me no heed and went straight to work. Was it you or I that suggested we look at the horses? I suppose it doesn't matter. Your curiosity was piqued when I mentioned that Dedalus couldn't be tamed, the horse wouldn't let anyone with a saddle near him. You must have seen it as a challenge, and lord how you love a challenge. To this day I still don't know how you did it. I suppose, like me, you made the damn horse fall in love with you; you are the only one he allows to ride him. He pines for you, by the way, as I do; he is listless and forgets to eat. When I brush him I try to console him (or perhaps myself) with whispering "she'll be home soon". But when I saw you early that morning riding Dedalus like you'd been riding him all your life, I must have exploded. My wounded pride gave way to rage, you know how I can be. I will never forgive myself for causing that initial look of fear on your face when I pulled you down off the horse so roughly, even though you have already forgiven me several times over. But you stood your ground as I raged, your cheeks flushed and your eyes flashing. You swiftly put me in my place. You countered, no city-slicker you, born and raised on a farm and professionally raising and riding horses since you were fourteen, while I dallied with travel, girls and general carousing until well into my adulthood. And you were right. When you turned to walk away, I don't know what possessed me, but I didn't want you to go. When I grabbed your arm and pulled you to me, it wasn't you that was captured. And when I kissed you it was as if I was finally well and truly at home in the world. The hay was sun-warmed and dry where I lay you down, pieces tangling in your hair that had come undone from the careful knot. I remember your trembling beneath me when I slipped inside you, and thinking how I wanted to make you shiver like that forever. Other than the soft neighing of Dedalus we were remarkably quiet; you gasped once, I remember, then buried your mouth in my shoulder to muffle your cries against my skin. I smile remembering this now as Ada slumbers in the hammock under the eucalyptus trees, her little fists dug deep in the cat's fur, it's purring no doubt in contentment; and as Colin runs around the yard whooping and chasing after the damn dog. Our son, dark and pensive as you and rebellious and wild as me, asks me to send you kisses with this letter, he misses you so. So I send you a kiss, chaste and sweet from our little prince. I also send you mine, burning and deep, filled with longing. Come home soon, love. I want to touch your face, kiss your mouth sweet as summer fruit, touch your breasts and dip my fingers in your warmth. Come home soon, love. Come. - R Letter to My Wife My dearest wife, The most perfect gift I can offer you this Valentine's Day, my lovely partner, is not one fashioned from diamonds or gold. Nor could it be purchased in the finest stores on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue. The gift I give is one only I can give you: a remembrance all our years together and those many Valentine's, our shared most special day. I remember our first Valentine's together. That tiny apartment filled to overflowing with the passion we shared. You stood in the hallway--awaiting my entrance--wearing nothing more than that wide red ribbon across your eyes, as a blindfold, your wrists bound behind your back in silken restraints. Standing before me, naked as you were, my heart raced at your perfect beauty. It is still etched in my mind. Erotic and languid: hands behind your back, your right foot pointed inward and your right knee bent slightly, you were the most beautiful creature on the planet and my lust arose before my coat and briefcase clattered to the floor. The bated breaths you took revealed the pounding inside your chest, the passions you always carried hidden between your pretty slim thighs. Touching you with my fingertips--my hot breath in your ears--brought a shudder over your entire body causing your small pink nipples to rise up in the expectation of my delicate attentions. When your mouth fell open to pull in air, fueling your raging sexual fires I felt my raging libido could tear though any simple fabric meant to contain it. It was desire personified. As though the gods had reached through the clouds and touched one woman giving her all the gifts of desire, beauty, arousal; creating a perfect example of woman's power over man and mankind, a power balanced by the delight man and mankind can bestow upon woman's worried brow. The truest form of love and lust borne in one body and one soul: yours. Deepest love, true love, can only fuel physical desire and our love fed the beast of our bodies' raging want; that creation of delicious friction that overwhelms both our mind and soul leaving us bare to the other, completed but exposed with no place to hide ourselves except in each other's arms; hidden, not from each other, but from the outside world's interference. I took great comfort in your smooth thigh pressed against my cheek as I dipped my eager tongue inside the sweet dampness of your sex, sampling the mead of your womb. And your strained cries, from each climax, echoed in my ears and you had so many that evening I thought you might burst under my weight. I am sure that was the night you bore the fruit of entwined love: our wonderful daughter. That first Valentine's after Kaitlin entered our world was another day I remember well. Rocking our infant daughter so gently till she was in the arms of Morpheus: fully embraced and silent. You leaped to your feet. Kicking off your clothing in a mad rush you whispered to me, "Take me, I need you inside me. Just don't wake the baby." Your cries of completion, normally quite loud and impassioned, that Valentine's, were but tiny squeaks lost in my neck, your teeth nipping at my skin to keep from shouting to the ceiling your love of my firmness held so tightly within the damp folds of your body. I still laugh when I remember that day the previous fall. I arrived home to find you curled up on the couch weeping because you felt "as big as a house" feeling that you could never again spark that lust, we so often shared, while you looked as you did. Pulling you to your feet and peeling off that ratty old bathrobe brought me to a new sense of awe and filled me to the brim. Your plump flawless belly filled with our love and your engorged tender breasts ready to nurse our most precious possession caused inside me a sexual maelstrom I had never felt before. Making love to you, ever so gently, and the tears of joy you wept, crying "If you still love me when I look like this, you'll always love me." In the afterglow, I tucked you under my arm, your warm smooth belly pressed into my side like the rib God took from Adam. At that moment your gentle snores filled me with something I could never explain with clumsy words, alone. Your hand always seems to find my hardness in the bed we share. Many nights I awoke to the advance of your warm palm as it encircled my rigid flesh, both flesh and hand acting on orders, not from our conscious but some corporeal demands without our waking knowledge. Your soft breathing uninterrupted, you slumbered while your grasp held me tight. I would lay back and sigh some nights at the gift of your love while others I would take you, still half asleep, attacking the depths of body until you would relinquish your physical rapture to my intrusion. Oh, and those Valentine's when Kaitlin, off to visit her grandparents--as so often on our Valentine's celebrations--when you would surrender once again to the carefree woman-child I knew in college, dancing throughout the house ecstatic in the joy of your own nakedness and that freedom to tease me at your own wont. And tease me, you would. Through the passing years, you maintained your figure, your fiery lust, and the sense of our shared love and desire... it amazes me, somehow. The bond we share never diminished or even flickered. What was it, four years ago? The Valentine's you came to the dinner table wearing nothing but one of my white dress shirts, one with French cuffs. And you never laughed, but carried on like it was perfectly normal. And when you slowly popped each button after our meal and padded to my side of the table, open to me, watching my eyes to make sure I was enjoying the show. I loved every casual flick of your slender wrist. Your fingers freed me quickly, as they always could. Some magic you possessed: your ability to find my lust and free it so readily. Swinging your leg over my chair you tucked me inside you, so comforting, you already wet from the anticipation that you so willfully kept at bay during our meal. When my body plumbed your depths your eyelids fluttered as usual--did I ever say that? When my hardness touches your womb your eyelids flutter... always have. You bouncing in my lap, I watched your lovely familiar face. You have so many expressions when we make love I'm not sure I have categorized them all but they do so fire my ardor: each and every one. The instant when my sticky warm seed, penetrating your deepest recesses or splashing gently onto your slim belly, sweet plump breasts, or your delightful tongue—your eager mouth open, awaiting my release—are etched in stone, never to be relinquished until no spirit remains in me to carry these loving images. Images of lust and desire that only two people deeply in love can share populate the rolling plains where my daydreams reside. The peculiar tremble in your hips, on the verge of ecstasy brought on by the dancing of tongue, never failed to cause a joy in my heart and a rebirth in my flesh, ready to please your sensual being one last time before sleep overtook us both. Not one inch of your sweet flesh was left untouched or unexplored by my tongue, fingers, or firm male intrusion... and all were accepted and even welcomed into your open body. Each a gift exchanged between us with the hope of continued acceptance... postmarked with undying love. Wait: the alarm for the rice just went off. Now where was I? Oh yes, That Valentine's evening we took pictures of one another late into the night, each one a testament to our lustiest desires--no film was ever exposed, nor even inserted into the camera, our imaginations alone recording our physical love—was one of our greatest nights. It was a night of screaming lust, crushing desire, and physical fatigue. My secretary asked me the next morning if I had "pulled a muscle" the night before. I could barely contain my laughter, choosing instead to shake my head quickly before retiring to the seclusion of my office where I could recount every precious hour of our time together. Every step, every one of your impassioned gyrations, twirls, leaps, pliés, performed for my eyes only on Valentine's, are locked in my memory, ready for replay at the instant of my demise. All the romantic dinners, cards, small gifts, and each sacred minute we shared on that holiday, set aside to express ultimate love for another, wait in queue... the moments that made my life something valuable to me. And all those, are the most valuable moments to me, those moments we shared on Valentine's Day... and nights. Oh ho. I hear a key in the door. Back again, the key was just our lovely daughter. When she poked her head around the corner of the dining room I thought it was you briefly. Kaitlin, nineteen years old and so much like you. She peeked in at me with that sweet triangular smile--the same as yours--but then her open palm pressed against her forehead and her eyes squeezed shut. She peered at the table--set for you and I--candles lit and lots of red hearts I cut out of some construction paper I found in the basement. Tears almost leaped from her eyes, screwed shut so tight. And then her chin wrinkled and her bottom lip quivered, exactly like you when you're about to cry. "What's wrong, sweetheart?" I pleaded. She sniffed and a tremble in her voice tore at my heart. "Daddy, I miss her, too." She whimpered. Our sweet daughter still calls me daddy. "I'm sorry," I replied in some confusion. "It's Valentine's. This is our special holiday. Your mother and I always celebrate together... alone." I added hoping she wouldn't be offended but would take my not so subtle hint. "Daddy, I know. That's why I drove down." I guess I forget sometimes, that the university is only a couple hours away. "Daddy, sometimes good people die... People we love..." Her tears were more than I could stand. "Please, stop." I begged, feeling my own eyes welling up. "You have to go on with your life..." She paused in the doorway and then rushed to me throwing her arms around my head hugging me to her breast. I could smell bath power on her. It's the same bath powder you use. I don't know if you introduced Kaitlin to it or if you have such similar likes to find the same scents appeal to you both. "Mom's not coming home, Daddy." Kaitlin was bawling aloud now. I could feel her tears splashing onto my forehead as she held me close. I circled my arm around Kaitlin's waist and hugged her. "Of course she is, sweetheart. She's always home with me on Valentine's." I felt her nod, her chin flush against my head. She sighed and held me tight in her grasp, sobbing quietly. Letter To My Wife Please be gentle as this is my very first time doing this. Please feel free to send me your input and any suggestions to help make my stories better. "D" ............................................. Letter to my wife By Your loving husband. As I write this letter, I sit here and think of days past, present, and future. The things that we have seen, things that we have done, and the things that we will do. The places that we have been. From the beginning at the hospital where we first met, to our first date, to moving 700 miles away, and to where we are now. How the time has gone by. I can remember our first kiss. I can remember wanting to touch you, feel you, need you, have you, but it was not the right time or place. I did not want to rush. I wanted to make sure that this was right. I remember the first time that I told you those three words at the park. You told me not to say them unless I meant them. "I Love You!" I remember our first night together. The warmth of your skin. The softness of your breast's. The wetness of your love. I was truly in heaven. I had found my soul mate. From that moment, I felt that we were one. I love the way you squirm at my touch. The way you moan when I play with your beautiful nipples. The way you beg me to touch your lovely pussy. I love the way you grab my dick and squeeze my balls. I can still hear the sharp breath that you take when I insert my fingers in you, to find that spot that needs to be touched. I love the way that you jerk and play with my dick. You always find ways to excite me. I love the way you talk to me when I am rubbing your pussy. The way you beg for more, "harder, faster, harder, and faster!" Then the moments arrives that you have so desperately waited for. That moment of sweet release. That moment of uninhibited pleasure. That's when you beg for me to fuck you. I love the way that you will practically rip my dick off if I don't give it to you right then. I love to crawl between your legs and lick your clit after you have cum. You will almost pull my face inside to get more. I love to suck your clit until you can't handle it any more, and then lick and suck some more. I love being behind you and rubbing my dick between your ass cheeks. I love the way you respond. The way you will arch to get more of my dick. I love teasing your little bud to the point of entering. You will squeeze and milk my dick until you know that I can't take anymore. I enter you with wanton lust and abandon. I feel the friction that is made by our love and lust for each other. As I slowly stroke in and out, you beg for more. You then begin talking dirty to me. You say things that make me shake with anticipation. You tell me your secret desires. Things that you want me to do and things that you want. I tell you my secret desires and wants. You tell me that you want to be fucked all night long. You tell me that you love cock. We talk of threeway's, orgies, groups, you name it. I want to give you these things. I only want to please you the way you please me. Finally, I am at the moment of release. You squeeze your pussy muscles and milk me for what it is worth. I finally cum in a fury. I shake, I moan, I pant, and with one final thrust, I give you all I have. You tell me that you love me. I look back over the fourteen years that we have had together, and if I had to do it all over again, I would not change a thing! I Love You. Happy Anniversary Letter to My Wife's Lover I'm a good husband. Never cheated on my wife and I love her deeply. I need her and I crave her. We have been together for many years in a very very happy marriage. Nonetheless I have this recurring fantasy in which my wife is pretty much a slut and she fucks whoever she feels like, male or female. I know she won't do it for real, but it excites me a huge deal to imagine that she would. Sometimes we exchange messages playing that fantasy and that gets me hard right away. In our fun time I'm the understanding submissive cuckold husband and she's a dominant hotwife. It really gets me very hard to be the submissive part, nothing more than a pet for her. All that matters for me is her pleasure. I'm a good cucky hubby. I'm always telling her to go ahead and flirt with some hot looking guy, and ask her to tell me all about it. I wish things were much simpler in life, with no diseases and no prejudice, so maybe there were more chances to fulfill my fantasy. I'd be glad to do anything to help her fuck other people, and maybe I could watch and jerk. In a utopic world everyone would win: she would have as much pleasure as she could get from boys and girls, her lovers would profit from fucking and using a deliciously horny hotwife, and I would be the happiest one in that fine arrangement. I actually have to play down that part, saying that "for sure they would have much more fun than I do", but the truth is that I *know* I'd be the happiest one in the scene, I just can't allow them to fully realize that. This is a secret, nobody knows that. Watching my wife cummimg because of somebody else, looking me in the eye and yet not wanting my little dick because she's overwhelmed by too much pleasure. I feel like I would probably cum without even touching myself if I could watch that. She knows I will do anything she asks me. And I keep waiting, anxiously, that she gives me an assignment, a task for her pleasure. For instance, I'm not gay and I don't feel any attraction to men at all, but if she asks me, I'll browse the net to find pics of hot looking studs to send her. If she asks I'll even browse for cock pictures to send her, but thankfully she never did that. Maybe one day she will do that to "punish" me and amuse herself. It would be a nasty thing to force me to have an erection and keep it while browsing for cocks. Even worse, she could force me to masturbate myself and cum watching cocks, under her supervision. I hope she never does that though. I know she's not into pictures, that's a guy thing. Like many women she likes a good story. At one time I gave her a special night, fucking her slowly with her favorite dildo vibrator, pretending it was one of her lovers. That dildo is much bigger than my tiny 4 inch dick, and after she came 3 times I asked if she finally wanted my dick, but she declined saying my dick is too small. She just turned on the bed and slept, completely ignored me, exhausted and satisfied over and over by her big dick lover. That night I had to sleep completely horny and without being allowed to relieve myself. It was one of the best nights ever. All that teasing went on for more than two hours and finally I was denied of having my release. I got much much *much* pleasure from being treated like that, like an object. I dream of the day we repeat that. I wish we could go a little further with this fantasy. I set up an email account for her, hoping that she could have conversations with men and women that want to fuck her. It would be awesome to see her sexting with people like that, and putting me on the recipients list. In this way her lovers would know that I'm reading their exchange, and I'd not only agree with that but also encourage my hotwife. That is not so hard to do. Her email address is gretahotwife at g mail dot com. She works a lot and she doesn't have much time, but maybe she could spare some time over the weekend to write and reply to guys and girls that want to fuck her. It is harmless in the sense it would only be a virtual relationship, but it would be super hot because it's real people interacting. I'm coming home after spending one week away for work, I'm writing this in the airplane and I'm gonna send her this text as soon as I land. I hope my hotwife will be waiting for me with a surprise, horny, and maybe with a hot story to tell me about someone she fucked while I was away. Of course I can never be totally sure if what she tells me is really a fantasy, or if she wants me to believe it is. She's so smart that I wouldn't be surprised to find out that actually she "planted" in me this whole idea of hotwife/cuckold lifestyle, like it was all my idea from the beginning, that I'm trying to get her onboard now. Yes, she's super intelligent just like that. But I think I started with this fantasy by myself (or did I? ... yes I did. I think). Do you want to fuck my wife? I certainly hope so. And I hope you are smart and funny enough to get her attention, don't be too blunt and obvious from the start. She's not a whore. Conquer her slowly, make her intrigued, so she will want to write back to you. Think context. If you are the right person, male or female, soon she will feel more at ease, curious, and I hope she will get to talk about what she can do with you. I bet this could be fun. She will get wet by writing to you and I bet you will get a lot excited too. And she will keep me in purpose on the recipients list so I can see all you both want to do to each other. I'll be the happiest one in this trio. But don't tell anyone -it's a secret.