Burning Letters

Burning Letters
Literary Erotica
by Lord Malinov

Jean pushed the screen door open with a thrust of her behind. The aluminum frame rattled in the night’s strong breeze, crashing back against the house as Jean stepped aside and cringed in anticipation of the bang. Pressing the box she carried hard against her belly, Jean carefully descended from the old wood porch.

She sat the cardboard box on the grass, beside the bar-b-que grill. A faint orange glow shuddered in the wind, shrouded in thick layers of white ash. Jean picked up a large set of tongs and pushed the blades between the black bars of the grate. Globs of brown fat fell into the coals as she lifted the round mesh, sizzling with yellow bursts of quick flame. Jean dropped it on the ground and sighed.

“I guess it’s right,” she said.

The sun had fallen low in the west leaving the last remnants of the fiery day in a wide splash of darkened orange and deepening blue. A north wind whipped hard through the leaves of the trees beyond the yard, a swelling rustle of disturbed order that made Jean nervous. Taking a few steps over the well-manicured lawn, she cast an expectant glance through a break in the trees. A hard black line of storm clouds moved in steadily.

“I’d better get this done,” she said.

Picking up a can of lighter fluid from the railroad tie that kept the grass and the flowers parted, she squeezed a steady stream over the orange shimmers in the grill basin. A quick hiss extinguished the glow.

Jean pulled a red lighter from her pocket and in a thoughtless continuation of an old habit, took out a cigarette. A flicker of flame led to a deep breath of smoke and Jean coughed.

“I’ve got to quit these things,” she said. “That’d really make him happy.”

Jean kneeled before the cardboard box and pulled open the flaps. The white creases of the envelopes shone in the porch light.

“Jean Anderson,” she read aloud. “I guess she’s gone.”

Jean flicked the lighter and held it to the corner of the envelope. Blue flame stole up the side of the white letter. A slowly ascending line of black consumed the thin paper as a yellow light burst forth. Jean held the burning letter in her hand a moment and then tossed it into the grill. The flammable vapors burst in an explosion of light.

Jean took the second letter and tossed it into the fire. She picked up a handful of the things and threw them in. The clutter of thick paper doused the light for a moment and then caught fire. Bright yellow light stroked Jean’s frowning face.

“They don’t mean anything to me. I don’t see what harm they do him, but I guess it’s right. He’s given me so much, I can do this for him.”

Jean picked up another letter, a thick one. She took the pages out, discarding the envelope in the flames. Reading the words scrawled over the white surface, Jean began to smile.

“Jeezus, Danny, you were a so full of shit.” She tossed the first page into the fire. “I guess Frank has good reason to get mad about these, even seven years gone.” Jean laughed.

“I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking of you, stroking my cock while I laid in bed, thinking of you, teasing my cock with wanting your tongue, imagining your smile as I came. I’m so crazy about you, Jean. I wish I could have come to see you today. I don’t know how I’ll make it until Tuesday.”

Jean pushed the page into the fire, watching the flames lick over the surface, drowning the ink in cinders. White smoke rose slightly and then dashed away in the wind.

“I’m sorry, Danny. She wouldn’t like them either, I’ll bet.” Jean knelt down to pick up the next letter, turning it over in her hands. She started to flip it casually into the fire, but stopped. She opened the envelope and cast the wrapping into perdition.

“I still can’t believe you, Jean. I can’t believe how incredibly naughty you were. My prick is still throbbing, remembering your mischievous smile as you sucked me out there. Anyone could have caught us. You are so wild.”

A flicker of light exposed Jean’s blush as she dropped the reminder of their day at the family picnic into the fire. A touch of warmth tickled her nerves as she remembered the smooth slip of Danny’s thick cock into her mouth, and pushing it back into his pants as his sister came toward them, calling Danny’s name. Jean twisted a hardening nipple.

Frank had told her to “act decently,” when she teased him in the park. Jean frowned, and took up another letter.

“Serving you dinner naked, pouring your wine, standing attentive while you ate. You fondled my prick, squeezed my bare ass, but gave me a pinch because the meat was too rare.” Jean laughed. “Now, Danny, I don’t remember that.”

The wind picked up, beginning to howl through the trees, sending flutters of sparks out of the fiery bowl. Jean sighed and looked at the half-empty box.

“It seems such a shame to lose so many memories,” she said. “Especially such hot ones. Oh, Frank, why can’t you let me keep a bit of my past?” She looked at the big house, as if it could speak for the man who owned them both. The neatly creased building stood silent, cool, steadily insistent before her. A crash of thunder rolled in the distance. Jean picked up another handful of letters and tossed them into the fire.

Jean sat down on the grass as the wind grew fierce, scattering a whirl of sparks. She picked up another letter and opened it.

“You breathe life into my soul, my heart, my love, I am made alive because of your beauty, your kindness, your fire. I want to fuck you Jean, fuck the raging inferno of your cunt, to lose myself in your stormy ride, to take you, love you, surrender and conquer and love you. I lose all my reason in your warm embrace. Last night you fucked me with such madness, with such heat, dripping in the sweat of our passion, we were burning like we were burning alive.”

Jean screamed all her self into the darkness. Lightning struck a distant tree and Jean screamed in savage rebellion, warring against the thunder. Wind lifted a pillar of sparks before her impassioned eyes and Jean paused to watch the letters burn.

“NO!” she yelled, wild, and kicked the black altar with an angry foot, spilling the fiery sacrifice onto the lawn, over the flowers, under the porch. Flames licked the old, dry wood and Jean sat on the grass and sobbed.

Four letters remained in the box. Jean clutched the thin papers to her breast as she watched the fire burn and grow. Backing away slowly, she wondered who she was, and where she was going. Jean smiled wickedly to see the rages of light consuming the house she left behind.

“He’ll know what to do,” she said, laughing madly. “Frank’s good at dousing flames.”

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, personal, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Burning Letters

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.