Free Temptation by Leda Swann

who gossips and does needlepoint all day, nor the scrawniness of someone malnourished, but the slightly stocky frame of a woman who works all day as a nurse.
    My shoulders are perhaps broader than most women from good nourishment and the physical labor of lifting patients. My breasts are smaller than many. You stare at my nipples, which become small hard points of pleasure, and are quite pink with the flush of your attentions .
    Lower down, the soft hair that you so gently run your fingers through, is also a light brown and quite sparse. If you opened this letter carefully, and I hope you have, you will have found a small lock of hair, quite short with a tight curl. I cut it with love, and hope that it will help you with your thoughts in your next letter .
    Although I have slightly stocky shoulders my hips are slim, with buttocks that are firm to the touch .
    Last night I lay in my bed, imagining I was in your stretcher in Africa, like in your letter. I could smell the dry grass, the dust of the plains, and your body close by. A wild animal called softly in the night, perhaps a lion or a jaguar. I looked up to watch you undress, silhouetted in the moonlight. Already you are standing proud, your body rampant at the thought of lying next to me .
    I confess it is hard to write of such things, but in my mind we are in a primeval place, nature all around, and we are together, man and woman with only canvas to keep nature at bay .
    Your cock (there, I wrote it!) was hard and clearly visible against the background light of the tent .
    As if it had a mind of its own my hand reached out to touch you. I couldn’t wait, for yours was the first I have ever touched in a loving way. I hoped you would want me to do that .
    Your hand dipped lower and my body arched to give you better access to my secret places while my hand involuntarily squeezed you a bit harder. Unexpectedly you came, spurting your seed over your belly and chest. As you peaked, your hand rubbed harder between my legs and, like you, I was unable to stop the flood of pleasure overwhelming me .
    We lay in the cool of the night, the blanket had fallen to the dusty dirt floor unheeded. I watched you fall asleep, kissing you good-night as your breathing slowed to a peaceful rhythm. I pulled the blanket over us and I too fell asleep, the sounds of Africa caressing my mind .
    Write soon, my love ,
Beatrice
     
     
    He could almost hear her voice speaking to him through the night, the voice that had helped him to keep his sanity through these long, lonely days in South Africa. Soft and sweet, it had called to him like no other.
    How he wished he was alone in his tent and could reach down into his bedroll to stroke the erection that her letter had provoked in him, to think of her standing in the flesh before him, to dream of her sweet body until he massaged himself into a temporary oblivion. But his neighbors were too close for comfort, and he had no wish to be caught out like a schoolboy. Instead, he gritted his teeth and willed his rampant body to subside.
    Despite his tiredness, and the prospect of another long and frustrating march in the morning, it was a long time before he could settled down comfortably enough on his bedroll to go to sleep. Even when he finally dropped off, it was only to dream of Beatrice.
    He woke with the sun, feeling washed out and wretched after a night of fruitless fantasies. It was easier to dream of Beatrice and to imagine that she was close by him when the sun was gone from the sky and all was dark around him. In the harsh glare of the day, he could not conjure up her image so easily. The illusion that he could almost reach out and touch her faded in the heat and the sunshine.
    The trumpeter played a drowsy reveille, and all around him the men started to wake up, turning over in their bedrolls and rubbing sleep out of their eyes. He was already up and had shaken the worst of the dust off his bright red jacket and pulled it on over his rather crumpled