Chapter 56
Alfred
The next day when Annabelle goes to the counting house, I sit at my new desk.
The gift really is too fine, but I love it anyway.
And I was pleased to see how much Annabelle enjoyed the story I gave her. I hoped she would like it, but she was reluctant, in fact, to return it to me.
Today, I decide to revisit another scene in my memory.
I remember, and write, and burn for my wife.
When I am done I move to set the story aside so that I may give it to Annabelle later.
But then I realize that on top of the story I showed her yesterday, sits another sheet of paper.
In Annabelle’s writing.
I slide the letter over his large cock. It barely fits—I am surprised I can even fit it onto his member. In truth, the letter is too small.
I have to keep my hands from shaking with desire.
“I am too large perhaps. I will hurt you.”
I am aware that I am faintly panting with desire. His cock looks delicious. But I have to remember that he is inexperienced. He truly has no idea.
“Women dream of a cock like yours, Alfred,” I say, trying to not make my own lust so obvious. “You will not hurt me. Especially since I have been with men before.”
But none with as large of a cock as this if I am honest. I won’t tell the man that. There is no reason to puff him up. It is true, nevertheless.
“If you are certain.”
“If I scream, you can be certain it is not from the pain.”
I smile at that. Because I know I am about to enjoy a man who is truly exceptional.
“Do not worry,” I say, allowing myself to touch the glory of his broad chest. “Are you ready?”
My heart pounds as I read it—the story of the first time she bedded me, told from her perspective.
It is indecent and wonderful and so Annabelle.
Of course, I begin to swell, reading this evidence of her desire for me.
And I am rather sensitive given that we have abstained from sex as of late.
Annabelle feels guilty about it which I hate far more than the abstinence itself.
While I, of course, miss bedding her, I am so enjoying the easy intimacy we have found lately that it hardly feels like a sacrifice.
Because while I want her, always, I want to be close with her in all ways.
And we have grown in different ways these past few weeks—in ways that she wouldn’t have allowed under normal circumstances.
We have gone places that would have been difficult to reach otherwise—but now that we’ve gained them, I know we’ll only be stronger for.
And I am confident that our passion will return. With us, it is too strong to be gone for long.
Nevertheless, I am hard by the end of the story which ends, as it did in life, with the split letter.
At the very end of the story, I spy a note.
Dear Alfred, I know that you have been patient with me as of late.
And you know I would never approve of you neglecting yourself.
I insist that when I am gone today, you pleasure yourself.
If this little story helps, well, then so be it.
You can tell me about it upon my return.
But make no mistake. I am commanding you. Annabelle.
My cock strains at this directive.
God, but I do love when she gives me orders.
It has been three weeks, almost, since I indulged myself. And the fact that Annabelle wants me to self-pleasure makes it too tempting.
Sitting at my desk, I take myself from my trousers and give myself hot, quick strokes. I close my eyes and remember that first time with Annabelle, now through her eyes.
Her admiration for my cock.
Her admission that it is larger, more pleasing to her, than that of any of her previous lovers.
Her confession towards the end of the story that she knows, immediately, that she is addicted to my touch. To my cock. To how I make her come.
The pleasure builds and I know I will spend.
And then without thinking, going purely on instinct, I come—all over the pages Annabelle left me.