Don’t start, I know I have your email address and I could text but fuck it, letters are romantic, and also this is a letter long enough that would cost a fucking fortune in text messages. Hopefully it arrives before December 25th.
I’m writing this, lying on the spare bed at my Dad’s. Mel’s making eleven full-sized trifles, I’m not going to ask her why.
The handle of my hairbrush is jammed in my cunt, too. For good measure. With the ribbed handle? The one you lubed up and fucked me with the night before mocks; taking photos with your new digital camera. If I squeeze my thighs together, it hurts.
I didn’t tell you this before we broke up for Christmas, but I’ve gone on the pill. There were loads of factors, but mostly it’s because when we get back in January, I want you to fuck me like you’re trying to get me pregnant. I just thought that would be easier to write out by hand, and it looks quite nice though, doesn’t it? I want to feel you coming inside me, feel the inches and the spurts. I want to hear you say the words.
“I’m going to get you pregnant.”
I get off on the thought of you pumping cum in me, in my cunt specifically, in my let’s-pretend-it’s-unprotected cunt.
I want to hear you moan “Oh Fuck,” in my ear as I tighten my ankles behind your waist. We’ll only fuck missionary, only in a bed, and you’ll pin me down, go so deep I believe this is the one that gets me pregnant.
And you’ll tell me how beautiful I’ll be, with swollen tits and belly.
“These tits.” You’ll grab them, kiss them, suck my nipples til they’re hard, they hurt.
Fuck me like we’re trying for a baby, baby. Tell me you love me when you stick it in. Tell me you love me, over and over and come in me.
Fuck me, fill me, and fuck me again.
Just this thought I’ve been having.