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The first of a series of letters and stories written by Sasha and for Haze during the time before our first meeting.

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Not a moment goes by when my mind does not wander across the gap of two-thousand miles, grasping at the imagined sensations of our first encounter. I think about each and every piece of you. I think of all those unexplored realms that will be mine to conquer. A girl unknown, soon to be mine.

I wonder at your embrace. How warm is your body against mine? How soft? When we first come together, arms tangled, do you squeeze tight like an excited child? Or does your body fall softly around me, just a tired girl looking for a place to nap for a spell?

How does my cheek feel against yours in that embrace? How soft the friction between our faces? Do you notice the stubble on my chin? Do you rub against it like a cat scratching itself, marking your territory? Or does that bristling sensation cause you to shy away?

How soft are your breasts against my chest? Is your excitement apparent to me, sharp and probing with desires that have yet to be realized? And what of my desire for you? When you feel my obvious arousal, do you pull away from me or press yourself ever closer? Does my own anxiety at displaying my needs cause me to pull back, fearful of your reaction? How then does the revelation of my hunger cross your face? Do you flash me a knowing smile? Or just giggle at the ridiculousness of it all? Perhaps you lick your lips, revealing the depths of your own hunger.

I wonder at the smell of your hair, at its texture, its softness. I dwell upon the feeling of my hands, of your hair sliding between my fingers. In my head, I clutch at that hair. How hard do I have to pull it before I feel your submission? At what point does that moment of lust cross your face? When does that subtle pain become pleasure and take your mind away to carnal places?

I dream of your body, of each and every curve. My fingers beg to trace the lines of that perfect flesh, to explore the angles and nuances of my Pet. I seek out the hidden places, the rises and the falls of a body that is, by a willing gift of your soul, mine to do with as I please.

If I trace a line with one fingertip down your side, at what point does it finally reach your hip? How does my hand feel when gripped around that hip? What sounds fall from your lips when first I grasp it tight? Do your eyes fall closed against the wave of pleasure? Do you quiver? Do those hips press closer to meet me with the anticipation of what is to come?

I wonder at the arc of your spine. I imagine my fingers traveling its length, from your neck to the small of your back, feeling out the bones that lie beneath the skin. Does that touch cause you to writhe in my arms? Is your body squirming against mine, our hungry flesh reaching out in desperation to begin the dance we both know awaits?

And what of that hungry flesh? As I slide my hands across your body, how warm are you? How soft? Do your resist my touch, even a little? Am I forced to hold you fast against the threat of your escape? With that firm hand do you succumb or resist even more? Does the fear in your blood rise at the thought of what I may do to you when I can no longer contain the beast within?

I imagine exploring beneath your clothes. Are you wearing a bra for that first meeting? If so, how do you react when I unfasten it then and there? Do you surge with panic? With hunger? Is there a look of surprise on your face or one of knowing?

And as my hands find your thighs, my fingers once again explore. My thumb comes to rest on the hem of the black and white thigh-highs you’ve worn for our first meeting. I slip a finger between the cotton and the flesh and give you a playful snap. Do you cry out? A giggle? Are your eyes now locked on mine and lost in your own imaginings of things to come?

My hands travel further, past your stockings and up, seeking that crease where your cheeks and thighs meet. What do your eyes say at that moment? Is there a challenge lurking there? Defiance? Desire? Impatience? And as my fingertips trace the line of that crease, climbing ever further, do you pull away or welcome me home? Will you allow me to sate my curiosity? To discover the answers to the questions my mind begs to resolve? Silk or cotton? And are you wet with desire from all the touches, the anticipation, the first contact?

My hands and my lips and my fingertips and my flesh are filled with the memories of times that have yet to pass. Memories of every piece of you.

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