by Lord Malinov
It wasn’t a book she would have bought. It wasn’t even a book she would have read but she found it and until she got rid of it, it belonged to her. A drab cover suited the contents, an anthology of disconnected letters, poorly written and almost meaningless. They badly told tales of exquisite sex, sex as good as the letters were bad, sex that was good only because they told her so. “Damn that was great sex.”
The first three letters were bad, uninteresting, unarousing in any way. She suspected the trend would continue, letter after letter of big melons and monster dongs making sweet, sweet love in the back of a pickup or elevators.
The fourth letter caught her attention. I wasn’t well written, if anything the prose was worse than what she found in the previous letters. But it told…
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