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At this I duck my head and I do smile as I open the envelope and retrieve the sheet of paper.
Which is as rosy pink as the envelope and it has a rose printed in the right-hand corner.
Taking a deep breath, I begin.
“Dear Coach Thorne,
I’m pretty sure you’re fuming right now. I’m pretty sure you’re also frowning at this letter. Maybe you want to hunt me down across campus and take my privileges away. Just so you know, I’m okay with that and if you go looking for me, I’ll always be easy to find.
But bear with me.
There’s a purpose to this letter.
So the other day I had a dream.
About you.
Which as you know is a common occurrence.
But anyway, I had a dream that I was sketching you. Like I did Saturday afternoon.
We were in your house, in your bedroom in fact. You were on the same armchair like you were that day and I was on the bed. The only difference is that instead of wearing that white shirt, you were wearing… nothing.
I mean, you did have your jeans on. The navy blue ones. That I think match the color of your beautiful eyes.
But not the shirt. The white one, with such crisp collars that make you look all sexy and dominating.
And so I could see you.
I could see your body. The tight slopes of your chest. The curves and bulges of your shoulders. I could even see the ladders and the ridges of your ribs and abs. And that V.
Oh my God, I think you have a V.
You do, don’t you?
And I could see that. I could see everything.
And because I could see everything, I think you could imagine what I was going through.
Not only in the dream but also in my bed.
Where I was tossing and turning. All heated and restless.
My panties were all sticky and riding up the crack of my ass. My nightie was all twisted up around my stomach. And every time I moved, my tits ached. The nipples scraped against the fabric and it was so painful. Like they were on fire.
I was on fire.
And I think I moaned. Multiple times, in fact, and I did it so loudly that I woke up my roommate. Who was pretty mad about all the ruckus I was causing.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that even though I had a dream about you that made me all wet and swollen and achy, so much so that I had to touch my pussy after my roommate went back to sleep, I still didn’t break your rule. Because when I came with your name on my pink lips, I called you Coach Thorne and not Conrad. Like you wanted me to.
See? A good girl.
A fast learner. A hard worker.
Your Bronwyn (your wallflower), whom people call Wyn and whom you mistakenly think is trouble.
PS: Please notice that even here I’ve addressed you as Coach Thorne and not Conrad.”
When I’m done, my fingers are trembling.
And I have zero shame in saying that my legs are clenched tightly.
Zero fucking shame in saying that I’m even rocking my hips here and there, moving my ass against the wall, biting my lip, breathing heavily.
It takes me a second to focus my drugged gaze when I look up.
Only to find that his gaze matches mine.
That his navy blue eyes are glittering and dark. His pupils have swallowed his blue eyes whole.
And he isn’t even propped against his desk anymore, no.
He’s standing straight, his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands fisted at his sides. And the body that I was talking about is moving, shifting with his breaths.
I stare at him, my body drenched in lust and my pussy weeping in my panties like it was when I had that dream and I can’t help but whimper, “Conrad, please, I need —”
“Read the next one,” he clips, his voice tighter, more guttural.
So much so that it scrapes down my body, his voice.
As if it were hands.
“But I —”
“Read it.”
I’m not sure how I manage to do it, but somehow, someway, I lower the first letter and swap it with the one that I wrote to him today and begin.
“D-dear Coach Thorne,
I hope you survived my last letter and that this letter won’t make you as mad as my first one must have. Because again if you bear with me, you’ll realize that it has a happy ending too.
I’m still sketching you in your bedroom and you’re still in that armchair. I’m still on your bed and you still don’t have your shirt on. But this time, you’re angry about my clothes.
That rosy pink dress that I wore for you on Saturday.
The one you said that I’m not allowed to wear anymore. Because of how tight it is and how short. Because you think it clings to my stripper ass and my milkmaid tits.
