This short story contains explicit sexual references that some readers may find challenging and/or offensive. You have been warned.
Letters, Read Just One Last Time
Letter #3: Broken
There are many things I would have done differently, given the chance, because I’m just the same as everyone else. And if I was given the chance of changing only one thing, it would be that I wouldn’t have accepted her dismissal of me so readily. That acceptance, that terrible acquiescence in her decision, has stalked me for the rest of my life.
Why? Because I know now that she loved me, desperately, but had two reasons, the least of which she would not, as she saw it, be the reason for the breakdown of my marriage, and secondly, but most importantly, the terrible belief that I could not, would not, be able to live with a cripple. Trouble is, I was so hurt at the time, that I blindly accepted as the truth her lie that she didn’t love me.
There is part of me that says if I hadn’t waited as long before contacting her again, there would have been a real chance for us. As it was, I sought consolation for my terrible sense of loss in a succession of affairs, which ended, as you know, with you.
You have many weaknesses, but I believe in my heart that you might have fared better with someone other than me. Someone who refused to accept the terrible truth that he’d let the real love of his life walk away. I can only say that I’m sorry, with all my heart, that you haven’t found happiness, either with me, nor subsequently with anyone else.
I first saw Emily sat on one of the long bench seats, more or less alone, as everyone else was up dancing in the crowded pub. She smiled up at me when we were introduced, and as I took in her pretty face, framed in her long, dark, silky hair, and the warm, welcoming brown eyes, a bomb exploded deep within me, and shivers of Déjà vu ran up my spine as I recognised a girl, and a lover, I had only dreamed about.
She had taken my offered hand, and held it gently as our mutual friend introduced us, and when he’d finished, she had just as gently pulled me a little closer. “Sit with me Joe, and tell me more about yourself.”
Up close, I could smell her delicate body scent, and the second shock wave of emotion rose, and I shivered.
Her tongue brushed mine as we moistened each other’s lips. Her fingers tightened on the side of my neck and I felt her shudder. She ran her tongue deep into my mouth, exploring, searching, as we kissed slowly. Another shiver ran up my spine, and she half-giggled.
“Christ! You two don’t waste any time, do you?”
Charlie put down the drinks and stared at us, looking puzzled.
A warmth had come over me I had never felt before. I was totally at ease with her, and we talked, broken now and again with the gentle meeting of our lips, in kisses that became progressively more passionate.
I wanted to hold her. A slow number was being played. “Would you like to dance?”
My neck felt wet. I looked down at her face and saw she was crying.
“I’m going nowhere, other than with you. Now I will touch you, just to show you that it makes no difference to how I feel about you. Then I’d like to see where you live, and make love with you.”
I took her into my arms again, and as we moved in time to the music, I gently ran my right hand down the length of her spine, from neck to coccyx.
I extended my ring finger as I touched her and I felt her clenching her buttocks. With each slow movement of my hand she shuddered and moaned softly. Then she looked up at me. “Christ Joe. Let’s go, otherwise I’ll be coming in front of everyone.”
Our drinks left half-finished, we got our coats and headed for the car park. Her hand went to the inside of my thigh as I started the engine, and she gave me the first directions.
Inside the house, she threw her keys on the hall table and led me upstairs. She turned and embraced me. “I’m a little shy. Hold me as you undress me.”
I moved slowly and deeply. Her breathing became interposed with gasps of pleasure, and I could feel her fingernails in my back. Her head began to rock from side to side and she shouted. “Oh! Please, more, more.”
My orgasm ended after a furious violent flurry of movement, and I lay, just above her and kissed her brow.
She rolled over. I could make out the slight, but distinct ‘S’ curve. Other than that her back was beautiful, her bum absolutely lovely.
She was breathing deeply again, her tongue licking her lips, and her eyes occasionally opening to look at me. She moved her bum so that my finger ran over her anus and she gasped. “Yes. Touch me there. Please.”
She lifted her head and shouted. “Come inside me. I want you inside again.”
Finally I lay by her side, bathed in sweat.
She turned over and put her head on my chest. She spoke, her voice low and gentle. “I’m in love with you. How is that possible? We only met just over two hours ago.”
At times, when I think of her, it seemed as though it was just a dream, a dream within a dream, and the reality was that we had never met. Whether it happened or not, the profound sense of loss has never left me, and despite trying, I still grieve, ruined, and useless to anyone else.
Letter #3: Broken is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters in the story, and real persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.