The pursuit commences…

September 3, 2014

Dearest Ms. Davenport,

To begin, you look devastatingly beautiful this evening, as always. The deep blue of the gown set off your eyes ever so brilliantly, and the side slit was a tasteful yet bold choice. Your legs, as you are so well aware, are an asset that all the men in the room were much enamored with (much to the chagrin of their try-so-hard wives). I could only imagine their softness and strength, and how they would wrap ever so tightly around the shoulders of the man graced with your company at such a dull affair as they one we shared tonight. I am sure he enjoyed, too, your long, echoing moans as he slid himself deep inside you, feeling your tightness caress his shaft. His strong shoulders, I am sure, endured nicely the sharpness of your red nails, as they gripped him, partially for show, I know this, but partially, too, to brace yourself for the shuddering climax that you so long to feel as they cascade through you.

As I watched you this evening, Ms. Davenport, I marveled yet again at your elegance, your grace under fire, as it were, in a room full of women who either wished to be you or lusted to taste you, letting their own sweet lips savor deeply the sweetness of your ever so delicately trimmed pussy. Their fingers, I noticed, would often stray, touching themselves ever so carefully as they stared at you from across the room, imagining the champagne on their lips tasting of you. Poor things, to be left only to imagine the heat of your passion.

But my manners. I tend to forget them when in your orbit. I am, so my friends remark often, a man fond of obliqueness and complexity, so forgive my distracted wanderings.

My name is one you have felt on your lips often, perhaps when those gorgeously manicured fingernails were teasing your own swollen clit as the bathwater caressed you. Perhaps when those two men (what were their names now, Adam and Edgardo) covered your sublime face and silken hair with their streams of hot cum. (Room 7 has never seen such action, I will wager.)

Please do not start, Ms. Davenport, and worry not. I am neither stalker nor voyeur, but simply a man who knows you, your desires, your longings as though mine own. I know, for instance, that two Saturdays hence you burned the tip of your tongue on a scalding cup of coffee (damn fools who make such swill) and that it hurts still slightly, especially when touching it to Edgardo’s balls. I know, too, that your soul aches still for the deep touch of a truly erotic spirit that can match your own, thrust for imagined thrust, as you grip the headboard and scream, ecstatically, for the stars to penetrate your soul at the moment of climax.

But I wander to the poetic rather than practical. For now, sweetest of dreams, my Queen.

Yours eternally,


P.S.:  The decision to venture into this evening without panties was, might I say… and inspired one.


Will Sabrina respond to Griffin with the lust he is hoping for?  Wait and see…



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