I want to talk about my breasts, because I think about them more than you might expect. They are full and soft and heavy in my hands, and I love the way they feel when I am alone and thinking of you.
It starts in the shower. The water is hot, the steam is rising, and I am soaping myself slowly, paying attention. My hands cup them, lift them, feel their weight. I let the water run over my nipples until they tighten, and I stand there a moment just feeling, just being in my body.
Afterward, I do not get dressed right away. I never do. I wrap myself in a towel that barely does its job, and I sit on the edge of my bed, and I call you in my mind before I ever pick up the phone. I am already touching myself by the time you would answer, tracing slow circles, feeling how sensitive I am tonight.
When you call the dispatcher and ask for Ella, I will tell you everything. I will describe the way they look in the lamplight, full and round, the way they move when I shift my weight. I will tell you what I am doing with my hands right now, squeezing gently, then a little less gently, because I know what you like to hear.
There is something about big tits that makes a man lose his composure, and I adore that. I adore hearing your voice change when I describe them. I adore the way you go quiet for a second, the way I can practically hear you picturing it. That silence is my favorite sound, because I know exactly what it means.
I will press them together for you, even though you cannot see. I will describe the valley between them, the way my fingers disappear there, the way I imagine your face buried in that softness. I am generous with details. I want you to feel like you are right here, like you could reach out and touch.
I sleep on my side, and in the morning they are the first thing I am aware of, soft against my arm, warm from the blankets. I lie there a moment and I think of you, and I touch them the way I will describe to you later, slow and reverent, like they deserve worship. They do.
They are full, they are soft, and tonight they are all yours. Every touch I describe, every sigh, every moment is for you. Call and ask for Ella, and let me show you what I mean.
Yours, Ella