The Letter on the Door

Reaching for his door knob, Blake finally dropped the persona of happy go lucky that he put on for work. With his briefcase in hand and the mail he just pulled out of the box tucked under his arm, he started to turn the door knob and noticed there was a letter tacked to his door.

Blake pulled the letter off the door, tucking it between his teeth so that he would still have one hand free to turn the knob on his door. He crossed his threshold, relief seeped from him in a sigh as he dropped his briefcase next to his entryway table. He took the letter from between his teeth and set it on the table, then set the mail under his arm on top of the letter.

He went through his nightly ritual; change into more comfortable clothes, dinner for one, dishes for one, laundry for one. He grabbed the pile of mail from his entryway table. Sat down on his couch, comfortable, masculine, rich brown leather with hints of Merlot, overstuffed with rich mahogany feet and embellishments on the arms.

He opened the mail pieces setting the junk mail aside on his coffee table, a mahogany matching the accents on his couch. His lap top was on his coffee table and as he opened bills he would log onto the account and pay them on-line. Always he paid them as soon as he received them. That was all that was in his pile of mail, junk and bills. Then there was the letter.

He picked up the letter feeling the paper, heavy, a resume paper perhaps, could someone have tacked a resume to his door? The envelope was almost too unique for a resume marbled with a coppery tone; it was more of a parchment. He liked the feel of the paper, the weight of the paper, even the coppery hues, it felt substantial, promising. He held the letter to his nose, a faint scent, nutmeg, vanilla and something else. It was subtle; it smelled like coming home to a kitchen where cookies were being baked.

Blake was curious about what might be in the letter, but wanted to savor the mystery a moment more. He expected the intrigue of the mystery created by the sealed envelope would exceed any intrigue actually contained in the letter. He got up from his couch and went to his wine cooler. He liked good wine so he kept about 48 bottles in his chiller.

He picked out a full bodied Pinot Noir, smiling to himself as he recalled that one of the Master Sommeliers referred to the Pinot as “Sex in a glass.” He thought it was Madeline Triffon who said it. His Pinot was from New Zealand with a fruit forward aroma of black cherry he looked at the bottle and saw the vintage was just two years old, but that was a good thing for a New Zealand Pinot.

He went over to his credenza and picked up a heavy silver letter opener. Though he was sure reading the letter would never match up to his musings of what it could be he felt it deserved to be more than just torn into, so he used the opener to break the seal. Before pulling the letter out of the unsealed opener he took another sip of wine savoring it with that last moment of suspense, then flattened out the pages, which were in the same coppery parchment as the envelope, he began to read.

”Blake,

I see you every day, we work together and at times I am overwhelmed by how close you can be to me at the office, standing over my shoulder, your shirt brushing against that shoulder as you critique a bit of marketing we are working on. You stay so professional, smiling, but aloof and yet as I breathe in your smell, the shampoo, soap, aftershave and cologne you use, I don’t feel professional or aloof; though I am smiling.

I have these fantasies about you, it is to the point I sometimes am more involved in the scenarios in my head than I am in what we are working on. I am sure at times my preoccupation with you makes me seem less than devoted to my occupation, ditzy. I thought if I committed the details to paper, they would no longer distract me at the office. Then just having them on paper wasn’t enough, I wanted you to know what I was thinking. So I wrote you this letter.

The place for these fantasies is never detailed, just someplace away from the office. Someplace where you can let your guard down, stop smiling and start to just feel, as I unbutton your shirt. Feel my fingertips move against your bare skin, exploring the muscles, the texture of your skin, the hair on your chest. Those fingers moving to your shoulders and sliding your shirt off your shoulders, where it stops at your wrists, I explore those shoulders too, moving my fingertips across the muscles and tendons. As I touch, as I explore and as that touch deepens you breathe and relax just a little.

I always imagine that for me this is sensual, but to you it is just relaxing, a shedding of your corporate persona. Then I start to kiss your bare skin, slow kisses, my warm lips against your skin, with moments were my tongue flicks out to taste you. That is when it becomes more sensual for you, when you look down too see the intimacy of the way I kiss you, the way I taste you. You want to reach up and touch me also, but your shirt, the sleeves pooled at your wrists keeps you from doing so. You have to accept touch without touching in return. In my mind I imagine this being a mild frustration, but then you give into the idea that you will be touched, tasted, given a moment of sensuality while you can just be and do nothing.

The look I see in your eyes in that moment is telling, the intensity of taking in without doing. In my mind I see this at night, where not only am I touching and caressing your skin, but so is the light of the moon. I am sure it is a romantic girl thing, but for me I imagine the light of the moon giving to you also, touching, caressing and wishing that she is more than light to reach out to you with, that she envies that I have fingers in which to feel you with. It is wonderful to imagine for a moment that the moon is jealous of me that I have the tactile experience and the taste you. I feel powerful and more daring, my kisses, licks, caresses move lower.

My tongue takes in the texture of your suit pants, a tight weave, light, wool. The top of your pants has a flap at the top, about an inch wide and a few inches long, with a hook and eye type of device that helps keep the place where your shirt tucks into your pants smooth. I unhook the flap, but then there is also a button. I lick the place between the fabric and the button and then undo that button. Undoing the button creates a small V of skin just above your zipper. It is a small piece of real-estate of skin, pie sliced piece, only a half inch at top, then reducing to nothing.

This patch of skin feels mysterious, untouched, not the Bermuda Triangle where things disappear, but it is the erogenous isosceles triangle where everything is intensely sensitive. I lick that place, you shudder, still trapped by the shirt sleeves at your wrists you still can’t reciprocate, you can only take in the sensations I am giving you.

As I taste and touch it is like there is a symphony written on your body, notes I must taste, touch, places I need allow to reverberate, places that require a crescendo and other places I must touch with the respect and reverence of the pianissimo. Moments and places where the light lilting of my tongue is needed and others where notes are held longer, drawing out the pleasure.

As I write this I see, on an intellectual level, the utter silliness. Thinking the moon could be jealous of me. Imagining a Concerto being a part of your skin, a Concerto only I can read and play, a bit of whimsy. Fantasies are just that, fantasies, containing flights of fancy and silliness, but also intense feeling.

I inch your zipper down letting your trousers slide down around your legs, to your ankles, trapping them much like your wrists are. Then I work on that symphony my senses find written on your skin. Touching, tasting, playing you like I was a virtuoso and your body was my instrument. In my real life there is no virtuosity.

You are there, hands trapped by the sleeves of your well tailored shirt. Legs trapped by the material in your trousers. Then I move your boxer shorts down, I always imagine boxer shorts. It is another piece of material to keep you confined while you experience. I am emboldened that you are already hard, that my caresses, that my tongue has already moved at least one part of you. I move to my knees.

I touch gently and find your penis responds to my touch. Then tentatively I taste your penis. It is slightly salty from your sweat, but I also taste hints of the soap you use. Then I put my lips around the tip of your penis and move them down slowly, getting a feel for how deeply I can take you in. I find the point just before it becomes uncomfortable and put fingers at the base of your penis up to that pint. First I slowly move my mouth up and down then I move down, up and twirl my tongue around the tip, back down.

The next time I move my mouth up I put my tongue against the back of your penis and put pressure on that side with my tongue while my lips still encase you. Again I twirl around at the top. I do this several times, then move my tongue to front and do the same. It is a slow movement, not meant to move towards release just yet, but to excite, to make you more aware of all the possible sensations you can have in your penis.

I quicken the pace a little, using my tongue at the back, the tip, the front, then do it over again, moving a little faster. With your wrists trapped you can only reach out to lightly touch my shoulders, but as I look up at you with my mouth on your cock I can see your head is tilted back, that you are in the moment. I tighten my lips, my tongue starts to swirl faster, my mouth moves faster. I feel your whole body tense, then you release and I can taste you, salty in my mouth as I swallow you in. After you have released yourself into my mouth, slowly I release you from my lips. I look at you, your emotions, your being, raw, uncensored, honest.

I revel for a moment that I have taken you to that place. Then my fantasy fades. Vaguely I ache for my own release, which is for another fantasy. Maybe even another letter.

I know there is more to you than what you show at the office, but I have no right to catch anything more than fleeting glimpses of what more you have to offer. Still each day I fantasize.

Thank you for reading the letter I put on your door.”

He finished the letter, hard, intrigued and looking for a signature that was not there. He finished his glass of Pinot Noir with a few more sips and then went to bed. He could have jacked off, he should have jacked off, but he wanted to savor the fantasy that was in the letter. That night his dreams were vivid, of the fantasy in the letter and of the ways he wanted to reciprocate.

He woke up hard. He felt unsatisfied, but had this vague feeling that it wasn’t because of what his body wanted, but because he wanted a face to put with the fantasy, of what she did to him and for the ways he dreamed of reciprocating. He put his feet on the floor, headed to the shower and used his soap, for the first time really smelling it, thinking about how a scent he never really paid attention to was seared into her mind and fantasies. He shaved, taking care and then breathing in the aftershave he had used for years.

Pulling on his boxers, trousers, donning a shirt, even putting on his socks and shoes he was conscious. When he did all this on auto pilot for years, but now he was awake and aware, because he knew she fantasized about details he never found important before. As he drove to work, he was impatient; he wanted to find out who wrote the letter.

He thought of the many possibilities in his office, all were attractive all would have no problem finding interested men in any given bar on any given night, but he did want just any of the smart, attractive, professional women in the office he wanted the one who wrote the letter. He had been smiling through his day for so long, feeling nothing but the need to get the job done and she felt passion. She aroused his passion. For the first morning in years he felt, he was sensitive, even to the pressure of laces that tied his shoes.

He arrived early at work by a few minutes, hung about the coffee pot, looking for one of the women in his office to pay him a little extra attention. He fought back the arousal he felt as he said good morning to each of his female colleagues, but he could find nothing that would give away the identity of the one who wrote his letter. He purposely let his shirt caress against the shoulders of the women he worked with, going over marketing campaigns, suggesting, praising, correcting, but not one reacted with anything other than the detached professionalism he was used to.

At the end of the day he realized that he had abandoned his usual smiling persona and even in search of the writer of the letter, he managed to delve deeper into the marketing campaigns his office worked on. The ideas that day were better, the exchanges bringing better results. He realized that in being fully engaged in each person he was working with, the results were better. Still he didn’t know who wrote the letter.

He knew as he drove home that night he would keep looking for some tip off as to who wrote the letter. When he parked his car, got his mail and then approached the door he hoped for another letter. There wasn’t one. He thought maybe tomorrow, I will see the giveaway that will tell me who, maybe tomorrow I will get another letter.