Kitten,

I haven’t been writing because we’ve been living — nothing I write is as good as what we do when we’re together. And I have been enjoying you, my dear loving Kitten, more than I can tell you.

I’m going to tell you, Kitten, what I want you to do for me.

I want you to walk in and melt into my arms, to press yourself against me and nuzzle your face in my neck. I want you to rest your body against mine as I slide my hand down your back and slip my fingers into the waist of your slacks; as I close my fingers on the back of your neck and pull you to me and hold you still.

I want you to kiss me while I inhale your scent, while I breathe in the fragrances I always associate with you, and that always delight me. I want you to press your breasts against my chest, to rock your hips against mine, and to surrender, for just a moment, to my embrace — before you surrender to everything else I’ll demand of you.

I want you to listen when I tell you to go to my room and undress, and to stand waiting quietly by the bed, wearing only your bra and panties — waiting until I come in and have my way with you. While you wait, Kitten, you can imagine all the things I might do. You can look at the pillow on the floor near the bed, and know that, as always, you’ll soon be kneeling on it and waiting for me to press my cock against your lips. You can look at the belts on the bed, and know that soon they’ll be fastened tightly about your wrists and ankles, binding you firmly. Or you can stand and look at the floor, knowing that I’ll take everything I want, and that you don’t have to worry or think about any of it — that all you have to do is obey.

I want you to make that small moan, Kitten, when I stand behind you and my fingertips just graze your body, just trace lightly along your hip. I want you to tense, your hands to move uncontrollably, as I firmly grasp your throat and tip your head back against my shoulder. I want you to whimper softly, helplessly, as I tighten my grip on your hip and tell you, slowly and quietly, what I’m going to do to your pussy, your ass, and your throat — how rough I’m going to be with you, how demanding and unreasonable.

And then, before all the other things I want you to do, Kitten, I want you to kneel. I’ll tell you so. I’ll say “kneel, Kitten. Now.” My tone will push you to your knees — I’ll rarely use my hands as well to drive you to the floor. And then I’ll step in front of you, stroke your hair, and tell you to worship my cock. You know what that means, Kitten, how different it is from simply taking me in your mouth. I want to watch you rub your face against it, to run your lips and your tongue along the length of it, to lavish attention on it. I want your wanton submission, your eager obedience. You know how much it pleases me, how much I love you for that surrender.

I want everything else too, Kitten, but what happens next depends on my urges and needs at that moment: you know the kinds of things I’ll want, but neither of us knows what exactly I’ll demand, or in what order, or how rough or gentle I’ll be. But you know it’s almost never only rough, and it’s almost never only gentle — and that you’re always sore afterwards.

Right now, Kitten, mostly rough. I don’t expect that to change before I see you again, my little one.

Love, and lust,
Sir