The Love Letter

My aunt died very recently. I have very strong memories of her. She was often present in my childhood, and, apart from my mum, she was the only other person who was present the night before I got married nearly two decades ago. She spoke of the power of love then, but I had no idea what she really meant. I have grown to realise that.

I saw her very shortly before she died. She never did know, and neither did I tell her, that I am fully aware that she had a very heart wrenching time when it came to love. On my visit to the hospital, when we were alone, she told me she was at peace with herself, but that she wished she’d done things differently, and I only had to look in her eyes to know what she meant. Her parting instructions for me were, “Don’t settle for second best. If you love someone, make sure they know it.” As I write this, I’m on the train, on the way to her funeral, her words ingrained on my heart. So, for Wicked Wednesday, this little story is for her, for everyone who wishes their love was different to the way circumstance allows it to be, and for the man who knows exactly how much I love him, and always will.

Ina x

What could she do after so much time already, hopes and dreams tempered by circumstance? What could she do that she’d not done before? She sat nursing her tea, the steam mirroring the haphazard swirl of emotion that engulfed every waking moment and broke into her dreams, leaving her waking, hot, heart pounding and desperate to touch the aching flesh between her thighs. The recollection of it left her pooling there until she satiated her need, the drink left to go cold. Those words, ones so easily stated, even more easily written, wound around her head. I love you. What did it mean?

She knew what to do. The idea began to envelop her, holding her with strong, warm arms, supporting her as she began to type. She sighed and smiled, her imagination allowing her to feel them around her. She began, and the words poured from her soul.

My darling,

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking – about you, and about me, and the way things are. How I can tell you over and over “I love you” without expressing what this is, this ‘Love’ I have for you? What can I do or say so you know that they’re not just words? I don’t know that I can; but I can try.

Sometimes images float to me. Of us sharing a special day with friends, and how my whole being radiates a glow that only you can feel. And, as the others dissipate, my warmth envelops us, pulling you in and holding you to me in a gaze where my every secret emotion is reflected in your eyes.

Sometimes it’s of you being angry and frustrated as you sit, waiting for technology to catch up with the ideas in your head. And I stand before you, my fingers stroking your hair until they eventually link behind your neck, as I trail kisses of sympathy and empathy over your face and onto your neck. I feel your focus shift, your mood lift, and I do all I can to keep it that way, kisses falling down your chest, lower, as I drop to my knees and begin to suck away every drop of anger until there is nothing but your moans, your shudder, and your release.

Sometimes it’s the thought that I might find you sitting in the dark and, when I approach, I find you crying. You don’t need to tell me what’s wrong; just let me wrap you up in my arms, your wet face in my pillow of compassion where you can listen to the steady beat of my heart. For you. We stay there just as long as you need, locked in painful memory, but also in understanding, and in hope.

Night upon night I struggle to sleep, as the image of you walking towards me comes into focus, tannoys speaking of random destinations for others. But the only place I want to take you is straight to your room. Watching you push open the front door so I can walk through, and your hand, so restrained until now, finds the soft curve of my backside, claiming it in your grasp, fingers dipping between my thighs as I pause, my body alight at your touch. And, as I gasp, you push me forward, kicking the door closed and pinning me against the wall.

Who knows (who cares?) where the buttons fly to, where the clothes fall, as your fingers wrap in my hair and my legs wind around your hips and you fuck me there, in the hallway, before I even lay eyes on your bed. The bed with silk ties fastened to the headboard, making my inside burn with the anticipation that you have every intention of pushing my boundaries and I have every intention of letting you. And I forget about the bed as your mouth finds mine. I feel the power of your love working its way from my lips to my neck. My emotions overpower me and I sink my face to your collarbone, devouring your hot flesh in the wake of my desire for you. I need you, again and again.

And when, later, I find I’ve been asleep, naked in your arms, and wake, my body nestled into yours, I realise what it is I feel – a strange, rare thing for me – pure and complete joy. You open your eyes and smile down at me. My heart, my life, melts into your gaze and my eyes prick because I know that I never want to be anywhere but wherever you are. I want to hold you tight each and every night. I want run my fingertip over the curve of the smile that sends my insides into raptures. I want to wipe away your tears and bring you happiness.

So this is love – my love from me to you – knowing that, no matter how many years go by, my every thought, every cell in my desperate, needy body is consumed by you. Love is knowing that you will always be my everything. And that I am yours, forever and always.

With all my heart, body and soul (but you know that),

Me x

And her tears boiled over as she let the words fly out into the ether, wanting the whole world to see how much she loved him, needing only one to understand her words. Would he see, and would he realise that her words didn’t even come close to how she felt? She closed her eyes, knowing she would wait forever for him to show to everyone that he did.

(I think this says it all:



If you enjoyed this, you may like other erotic tales on the Short Stories section of my blog.

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21 thoughts on “The Love Letter

    • Ina Morata says:

      Thanks, Molly. Yes, she was always full of straight talk and never afraid to give me advice. In this case, definitely worth remembering.


  1. Alun Norley says:

    Wise words from a wise aunt. My condolences at her passing.
    Beautiful words, elegantly put. When I read your work I sometimes feel like closing down my word processor and putting away my pencil. How could anything I write possibly compare?
    Thank you.


  2. Sir says:

    Dear you,

    I don’t remember when exactly it was that I fell in love with you. Whether it was the words, or the feelings or the acknowledgement that we fit together like two puzzle pieces; but at some point, you became more than a friend and advisor, and became the reason I wake with a smile every day. Part of me [a larger part all the time] is with you and inside you constantly. The desire by now is a given. It doesn’t take a trigger, it’s always there. Fantasizing about your smile and how kissable your lips are. Your breasts, heavy in my palms, the nipples tempting my mouth. Your pussy, always soaking wet for me, throbbing with need, aching for my fingers and hard cock. And then there’s your arse. Round perfect curves, waiting for my hand, my paddle, my domination. Spanking. Spanking. Spanking. Hard, soft, fast, slow: over and over, in our bedroom, in the kitchen, in the park and on the train, your eagerness to go over my knee is matched by my craving to turn your bottom pink and then thrust deep btwn your hot cheeks. But that is in our dreams at the moment. We both accept the reality… for now. But my love for you is far greater than simple lust. Your intelligence is an aphrodisiac. Your skill and talent for both words and visual art stuns me every time. I’m engorged with your CV. Your drive turns me on. I know you’re worth so much more than your present circumstances and I have utter confidence in your skills. Even from a distance, I am singed by your fury, drawn moth-like to your passion, and yearn to quench my thirst within the rumpled pages unfurling at your quivering core. Love is just a word. A word twisted by poets and playwrights, abused by athletes and teenagers. A word that both repels and attracts, that destroys and empowers. When I say I love you, it means that I have freely given you all that I am, with the hope that someday all that I can be, will be snuggled safely in your arms.



  3. Posy Churchgate says:

    Oh dear – I don’t really want to follow that eloquent passionate reply from ‘Sir; but here I am, late to comment about how blown away I was by your wonderfully expressed letter. No easy task. Most people can only dream of receiving a tribute such as that from their lover.
    I regret to hear of your Aunt’s passing but I feel that you had a great bond, and were both aware that you did. Her words were wise indeed and will haunt you in a good way – expressing your feelings to those who deserve it will be an empowering thing. I shall take her advice too, so thank you for sharing.


    • Ina Morata says:

      You are SO sweet – thank you! And the reply completely floored me (and I have made sure Sir knows it). I never expected such a stunning, public display of love.
      I appreciate your lovely words about my aunt. Yes, her words will certainly stay with me. And I hope that taking her advice makes you feel as utterly happy as I do right now.


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