Home > ethereal, fantasy, memories, sex, travelog, writing > letters from the tropics #1

letters from the tropics #1

photo by Gordon Denman

While traveling abroad in Costa Rica and the Cayman Islands two years ago, I kept up a correspondence with a man I’ve grown closer and closer to over the years, despite our never having met in person.  We had first started talking online while I was with Tim, becoming friends and confidantes of each other’s perversions and hidden fantasies.  After I left Tim, this man – J – was the only person I felt I could lean on for support I desperately needed.  Throughout my time in the tropics, I kept as connected to J as I could, e-mailing and chatting with him whenever there was Internet access, feeding my unhappiness and anguish through wires and satellite to him.

I needed to heal, to find some sort of validation for what Tim put me through, to fill the void he’d left in my life, to find an end to my emotional floundering.  J helped guide me through each of these, and I have no means for expressing the immense level of gratitude I feel, except by being healthy, happy, and continuing on in the life he helped me get back.

In any case, I’ve been rereading these e-mails, though some are still painful to remember.  J requested that I send him updates on my well-being and travels, asking frequently after my social, mental, physical, psychological, and sexual health.  This evolved over time to assigning tasks for me and exchanging fantasies.  This following one always takes me back to the sand and sun of the Caribbean, so decadent and sluggish in its beauty.

(I altered some things to make it flow better, as well as fixing some pretty awfully constructed sentences and poor punctuation usage.)

To: J

On this surreal, whitewashed piece of land, it’s easy to
become consumed with perpetual laziness and the desire for
simple luxury.  Being surrounded by water, waking to a red sun
and the sound of crashing waves, brings with it certain
imagery: rippling, flowing translucent curtains blowing
freely through wide balcony windows; sandy colored houses
beautiful in their simplicity; hammocks swinging
gently under coconut trees; wind tugging at loose clothing
and long, entangled hair…

Lying on a rope hammock, completely relaxed, eyes
half-closed, it’s easy for the mind to start wandering.
Easier still, given the circumstances and hazily blue
atmosphere, to wander along visual thoughts of
pleasure…heat…lust…depravity…simple carnal desire.

To begin, as the hammock continues to sway slowly, to long
for human contact, for the touch of heated skin.  To
luxuriate in images of undulating bodies, meshed and
intertwining.  Not even complete scenes or sequential
events – just the pure visualization of lust.  I shift
slightly, friction between my thighs beginning to refocus
my mind.

My distracted thoughts, combined with my reclined position
and natural curiosity, shift to imagining these fragmented
images in the hammock.  What would it be like…?  Two
bodies, pressed together by each other’s weight.
Crisscrossed rope digging into skin.  Every movement
shifting the hammock…

I picture different positions, wonder how they would work
here; how feasible, how comfortable.  How pleasurable.
Finally, I’m left with one.  Me on top, crouched over your
body, pierced by your cock.  Just rocking
slowly…forwards and backwards…almost imperceptibly.
Sensations jolting through my body, aided by your roaming
hands, grasping hair, skin, pinching and massaging.  My
thigh muscles alternately tense and relax, lifting me
slightly and sliding me back down onto you.  The hammock
rocks with our movements, rope creaking and stretching
around us.

So excruciatingly slowly.  And yet…as much as I yearn for
the release, there is a sweet desperation to prolonging it.
I clench down, so I can feel every inch of you filling me.

Finally, it becomes too much for both of us – too much
sensation, sensitivity, buildup.  You grab my hips and
thrust hard at the same time, searching for the depth you
crave, for complete entrance.  The pace quickens, the
desperation takes over.  The hammock shudders with our
bodies, swaying erratically, absorbing some of the energy
of our movements.

It doesn’t matter that I’m coming, that I’ve come, that
suddenly it is all too sensitive.  Your hands grip into the
soft flesh of my hips, directing my body, forcing me down
on your cock again, again, and again, meeting your

As you come deep within me, continuing to pump all the
while, through the low groan coming out of your lips, as
your head tilts back against the rope braids, your
fingernails dig into my back, pressing me down until you
are drained…emptied.

We’re both panting, mouths dry, skin tingling.  I feel the
sweet, hot sticky fluid oozing, coating the insides of my
thighs, dripping onto the hammock.  A breeze sends its
musky scent up to us.  It mixes with the salty ocean air.
I inhale deeply.


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