Love Letters.

It was the eighth ‘love letter’ I’d received that week…for what seems like no apparent reason, an anonymous person has continued to shove letters upon letters in my mailbox. They seemed to have been placed there personally, as the envelope was only blank. It smelled highly of a cologne that stripped the soberness of your senses.
The sender labeled himself as an admirer, and if I needed to refer to him by a certain title, to simply call him “D.”
His writing was masculine, calligraphic, intriguing. Even while the handwriting spelt out blood chilling threats, I couldn’t say I didn’t have an interest in D. An interest that ran skin deep — as deep as he described every stab wound he would give absolutely anything for to tear on my flesh.
Which is why I chose to keep the authorities out of this.

I’m no one of interest. In fact, I try to keep my head low most of the time. Though I hate to admit this to myself, the way others observe and pick me apart with their eyes, I’d guess it means I’m attractive, in some way, shape, or form. My features such as my eyes and hair are dark and sharp. My skin is fair, and my body is toned and slim. I’m young, but the way I act, speak, and observe the world is not.
Giving any further description…well, I’d just prefer to leave some to the imagination. It’s always so much more fun that way.

My love letter, I placed behind every other letter, bill, and all that jazz sent through snail mail. Most of it was shit.
As I stepped through the door of my house, in which I lived alone, that aroma hit me like a wall. It enveloped and teased me, pulled and played with my senses. That damned cologne…and I was quite sure the love letter hidden behind the crapload of junk mail — its scent wasn’t nearly so damn strong.
A blank, pale red envelope lay on the blackwood table. A single, elegant ribbon was tied around it. As I set the mail down and gently picked up the envelope, I turned it at every angle. It was sealed with a lover’s touch and caress. A simple, yet royal ‘D’ was written on the exterior of the other side of the envelope.
I tenderly opened it, something straining at me to preserve the neatness and beauty of the envelope. The walls screamed to run, run, run.
The letter was short and written on an off-white parchment. The ink used was a solid black, but written with such fine calligraphic pen, I couldn’t help but appreciate it.
Pressure built in the air around me. Run, run, run.
I stayed. Took a seat.

“To the object of my blood lust, of my affections,” the letter began, “you capture me. Your beauty, your grace, your wisdom, and the heat of the blood pulsing in your veins. The blood I long to spill, the blood I long to be mine. And only mine. You drive me, control me, pull me and push me back. But you’ll never see that. Again, my lover, you capture me. And thus, I must capture you in return.

D.”

I concluded reading the letter with a smile. The smile a school-girl wore when she received an admirer’s letter, one with a loving poem or sweetly spun words.
But then remembered the letter at the bottom of the stack of mail. I’d read it later.

**********

The evening fell and embraced my estate. I followed up along the stairs with a calm pace, and strode comfortably along the hall toward my bedroom. I’d only been wearing a robe, which I undid but didn’t remove. Leaning on one of the four posters on my bed, my gaze was fixed at the window for no reason. I always found the foliage outside the house and available at the window’s view breath-taking.
With a calm smile, I turned and removed my robe, hanging it on a hook near the bed. Bare, I headed toward the bathroom.
The faucet squeaked as it was turned, the tepid water beginning to flood into the shower. Stepping in without even tying my hair, I leaned against the wall and allowed the water to beat down upon my nude form, listening to its hiss as it flowed from the showerhead. My eyes gradually closed, making it clearer how much I enjoyed the feel of a warm shower.
I thought I heard a soft flick from the exterior of the shower curtains, but ignored it. The water held my interest firmly where it was. As I opened my eyes and made a grab for the soap, I realized that soft flick was from the light switch. Thus, the lights in the bathroom had either failed…or been turned off.
Again, the aroma from earlier that day encased me in its loving caress, its loving tease. The cologne..that cologne. The scent had been enough to set a wild fire in my loins, between my legs. My skin craved a lover’s caress, my vulva swollen and deliciously moist with its own juices. My breasts felt slightly heavier, more sensitive, and my breaths drew in and out raggedly. Even with the lights out in the bathroom, I could see a faint shadow behind the curtains. I leaned against the shower wall, legs slightly parted, hands at my hips and my long hair strewn over my shoulders — an open invitation. Again, the walls, the air — all of the environment, it screamed and strained at the instinct to get away.
Escape and save myself.
But something else, again, held me in place. The curtains barely shifted as I felt a hand on my hip, and a cool, metallic, sharp object resting on my throat. I didn’t care. My blood boiled and pulsed. It was instinct to grind myself into my attacker’s body, from which an answer was received rather quickly. The stiletto knife slipped from position as he ground back, a soft, cooing moan pleading from his throat.
He leaned against me, but the knife still remained at my flesh, harsh breaths near my cheek. His surrender yet claim only drove me further.

Unbuttoning what felt like a trench coat, I tore his buttoned shirt and left it there to cling wet to his skin. His pants I undid and lowered, just enough. The silk boxers, I left on. For some reason, the knife pressing at the pulse at my throat only made this act more erotic.
My voice lowered to a feminine, husky purr. “Lover..” His breathing paused for a moment as he lowered the knife, tracing it gently down my side, allowing me to absorb the way it whispered down my flesh before I heard a metallic clink outside the shower, where he threw the weapon, and let the silk boxers move down upon his waist.
A low growl came from his throat, and from his hips, a single thrust into me. The intense pleasure blinded me momentarily, but didn’t keep me from rythmitically gyrating on his ever-hardening organ. It was the perfect size. Enough to meet and slightly, just slightly, surpass my cervix, but not enough to create anything but the intense waves of pleasure crashing down on me, and dragging me out into that ocean mercilessly.
Pinned against the shower wall, I pressed my lower body into his thrusts and moved against them, matching his volition. Quiet, but resilient cries and pleas of pleasure, came from us. Moans escaping our throats. Ragged breaths. The beating of the water. The pulse of his organ, the rings of pleasure around my clitoris, and that indescribable feeling only a lover could create. We muttered and whispered sweet nothings during this love-making as the world seemed to revolve, crash, and crumble all around us.
I raked my nails down his lower back, which made him thrust harder, faster, with more and more wanton into me, and nearly screamed. The climax I was slammed into over-whelmed me. After barely enough time to realize what happened, I felt a shot of warm juices flood into me, causing a soft moan to escape my throat.
With that, a cold, metallic object shaved too close to my throat, and even through the darkness, the world went ebon.

(Depending on the comments, I’ll continue. 😛 Leave me some good ones.)

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