Lana Gets a Love Letter

Author's Notes:

For ease of reading: Thoughts and speech are indicated by single quotes and double quotes respectively[1], and perspective shifts are separated by two dashes on two separate lines.

The first letter is the actual body of smut. Outside the first letter, sexual assault survivor-ship is mentioned.

Enjoy!

--

--

I was feeling a little lonely, since Kait hadn't come to visit me for a while. After eating my dinner and brushing my teeth, I threw on my comfy robes that Kait had gifted me a month or so ago. I waltzed into my bedroom, dimming the lamp before I practiced my piano for a short while.

Before bed, one final thing: check my messages. I'd sent a letter to Kait 2 days ago, but she hadn't responded yet.

Has she been ignoring me? Did I do something? I can't think of--Watching my train of thought derail, I put it back on the tracks, not letting my anxiety get the better of me.[2]

My sleepy eyes stared confusedly at the date: 8/17/5/11[3]

'Why is it configured like that? Shouldn't it be day 17, month of November, year 8, era 5?'

'Why is it year 8, day 17, era 5, month of November?'

'For the gods' sakes, why do some provinces still insist that months have a variable amount of days and that a week is 7 days instead of 10, and then list the order of their dates in a seemingly random way?'

I thought to open e-aggregate to search how many millennia it would actually take for the planet's rotation to slow down from 360-point-zero-zero-something or to find an astronomical phenomenon that would constitute a reason to have a number of days in in each month to vary, that wasn't the crazed religious ramblings of a hermit from several thousand years ago or weird dead traditionalists from shortly after the Hellfire war.

'Wait, why don't I know the reason it's ordered differently?' I shake my head, shooing away this train of thought that had long since derailed.

"Your meds have worn off. Stop getting distracted and pissed off at nothing," I sigh to myself, under my breath.

'Whatever; must be localized incorrectly. I'll fix it later.'

With a few clicks I opened my Cryptbox and checked my Cryptexts. Nothing.

Opening C-letters, I see nothing of note but some gods-forsaken spam letters from a service I used a grand total of once, which I marked as spam and deleted for the umpteenth time. 'I have to set it to whitelist instead of blacklist later.'

Before I get the chance to... ping.

'A new Crypt-letter.'

'No header though... Oh! This was probably Kait!' I thought, noticing the (likely deliberate) lack of text, and several attachments.

'You sent me a bunch of journal entries today, didn't you?' I silently asked no-one but myself, smiling with anticipation.

I opened the email, and sure enough, there were several pictures of her journal. The first attachment, however, was a picture of her... Nude, face[4] obscured by a note-card that read 'I miss you quite a bit, and since we aren't exclusive... Here is an entry on a fling I had somewhat recently, that I figured you might enjoy.'

I smiled. 'Buried in academic work and buried in warm bodies, and I'm still on her mind...'

I grabbed my vibrator, got comfortable, and began to read.

--

--

September 10th.

I wrote this entry as closely in accordance with how I experienced as possible, to relive it again as I see fit, or perhaps share <3

I knew it was a bad idea to come to this party.

It was a hot and humid night with very little academic activity having gone on before or to go on the day after, and many of us had chosen to loosen up or even lose ourselves at this party.

I didn't know anyone here, however, and foolishly reasoned it would be easy to make conversation despite the bumping music and chaos.

My eyes catch sight of so many interesting looking people. A gal with a tight black lace dress and black leather boots that rose up far past the dress's hem, disappearing into its depths, she oddly, also wore a frilly pink scarf that was clearly a well-made custom piece. A dude who wore a jumpsuit with the top pulled down, exposing a toned chest with some sort of spill getting lost down the shapes of his toned body... so many people.

'So many people...'

It's so loud and cramped and there are so many people and my head buzzes with repeated and useless thoughts torturing me over what I could say and that I've said nothing at all. Over how it could all go wrong. How I can make a damn fool of myself. I take a deep breath.

I'm never really a nervous person, but at this party? I'm[5] around people I'll have to be friendly with for the next few years. People I have the chance to be around a lot. I've no fear in subterfuge or in contexts where I'd never see someone again... My likability and charisma could get me places, has taken me places, and I've practiced it in circumstances both dire and casual, but the consequences were always temporary. Tonight, I'm not risking being the subject of a violent crime or tossed bloodied in a ditch, -not that a sketchy scenario like that had progressed nearly that far in years- but in a situation like a run-in with a shitty hick who didn't like the cut of my cloth, a protest gone awry, or a pleasant trip to some grocery store where the cashier was far too eager to share photos of his family--it is no less nerve-wracking. Things like that are always over as fast as they start. This wouldn't be.

'God damn it. I've been through worse! I'm safe here, it's casual, and it's not like I can't handle violence if somehow, that did happen!' I try to tell myself.

My mind begins to sink down into the pit of my stomach, weighed down and forced to tumble down my guts like an old woman down a flight of stairs, burdened by sacks of potatoes slung over each tired and overworked shoulder. Absent potatoes and the weight of years, however, what threw my mind down the deep and twisting pit was the memory of the one time I couldn't escape unscathed[6], even if it was without a physical scar.

I feel a bit of bile rise in my throat, and a frantic rush of fear pulse through my form, screaming at me to run.

'I hate having trauma.'

Possibly even worse, I can feel the fear welling up into the most embarrassing place possible, partially lifting my skirt, while my racing mind hopes, begs, and desperately pleads for no one to notice. 'Why did I wear a skirt? I don't even like skirts!'

'I need to leave, now.'

My chest rose and sank at a dizzying pace.

And someone... seems to have taken notice.

A woman whom I have not seen the face of yet, whom I'm too scared to look at, grabs my wrist and presses her body into the front of mine own.

'Oh gods above what if she notices... please don't notice...' I plead further, the words lost between mind and mouth.

'Oh gods I have pre soaking through. I'm sorry! I don't even want to be turned on! It's not me! It is me but it isn't! I'm not gross!'

She places her other hand between my shoulder blades in an embrace and tells me to breathe in. She gives me a knowing look, topped off with a gentle and reassuring smile.

She speaks.

"Breathe in"

"Breathe out."

The world begins to melt away a little bit.

"Breathe in..."

"B r e a t h e o u t..."

So much tension melts.

"B r e a t h e i n..."

"B r e a t h e o u t..."

She gently pushes me onto the couch behind me, gently coaxing me to sit down.

Then, she says something that sends a wash of desperate shame over me, causing me to shake even more than the adrenaline rush that was now weakening me as it wore off.

"G o o d g i r l..."

Tears begin to well up in my eyes, the most burned-out and love-starved parts of me clinging to the ecstatic relief and recognition of those words that touched my soul so damned deep-

'I hadn't heard that since the night I saw Avarice at a live show. Oh gods how I missed hearing those two words.'

What was left of my rationality and awareness was now completely mortified at how my body was physically expressing my mind's appreciation for the tender phrase.

Before the party, I tried to pick something to wear that was casual in a pathetic attempt -and miserable failure- at coming off a tad less uptight than my unusually anxious self had become as of late. No, now this disaster of fashion translated the clear uptight-ed-ness to a panty-tight-ed-ness and skirt-upturn-ed-ness.

I feel the skin my panties decorate grow much cooler than it should feel, both from the draft caused by the stretching lace cloth, tautly tenting from my tight and tense arousal and the shameful wetness I can feel slowly leaking into the all-too-form-fitting adornment at the maelstrom of emotion and ocean of possible people to judge me for this whorish display.

She slings a leg over my lap, pressing against the shameful beacon signaling itself and implicating me to the room, and causing a rush of pleasure to shoot up from it through my spine radiating through my limbs as my body twitches and sputters.

She leans over me, and I meet her gaze, if but for an accidental and painfully brief moment.

She was stunning. Dark and soulful eyes adorned with black wings that I wished, in this moment, could fly me away.

My heart skips a beat, and just as fast, I am grounded, aware of my in-public shame again.

I was too scared to look into those beautifully adorned amber eyes any longer or say a word even if I could find the right ones to say.

She kicks something with her other leg, and some machine sputters to life that she has clearly hit with her boot out of my field of pleasure-terrored and tunneled vision.

With a swift motion, she snaps her (admittedly very odd) necklace off and palms it. Then reaches beneath my skirt.

Come to think of it, I'd seen this sort of necklace before. Even if I only saw one like this a single time before, I'd never forget what it was.

"I don't want a pretty doe-eyed and wound-up thing like you too scared to come back and see me or cut loose in a place like this when you so clearly need it, my desperate whimpering deer..."

With a mechanical click, a touch of her skin to mine, and an embarrassing sense of intoxicating pleasure ripping through my defenseless and vulnerable form, her necklace begins to vibrate in her palm in an embrace against my sobbing tip.

The necklace buzzes loudly pressing into me, but louder is the bumping music, and even louder is the numbing pleasure buzzing through my increasingly empty and useless head.

Fear does grip my chest, but so too do my needy and tingling breasts press into the gentle softness of her own, if still over our own thin clothes.

'Oh God.. what if someone--'

'I can't hold back anymore. Fuck.'

I scream in ecstasy, terror of being caught soon to follow. The scream does not pass my lips however, before her lips and tongue could catch the cries of bliss that tried to escape me, her tongue pressing deep and forcefully into my depths. Terror gave way to cathartic safety. My tongue shudders while hers feels every inch of the inside of my mouth, drinking me in. She seemed to thoroughly enjoy feeling the power of my moans tremble in her throat, rumbling almost as hard as they do before falling from my own chest.

My body feels like it's going to shake apart like some flimsy tack-welded scrap heap tumbling down a mountain. The opposite of what my legs are about to do to give me away.

My tension breaks and rips forth from deep within. I feel a tinge of fear. 'Am I about to leave a slutty mess on a stranger's couch, a beautiful woman's clothes, or my only pair of panties I'd have to walk home in? I can't stop it! Gods damn it! Oh! OH!'

Mind ruptured and body enraptured by orgasm, spurt after wave after body-wrenching burst from deep within me, possibly drawing from as deep as the mush my mind had become, became a splattering noise that slammed against the walls of a plastic cup, filling it. A noise somewhat reminiscent of the hurriedly poured shots some fellow students were currently pounding back to get wasted.

A cocktail, no matter its proof, could not make my mind this buzzed.

She had slyly placed it between my thighs to save me a ruined skirt and a walk of shame, legs forced open with her own so I didn't crush it and make a slutty, wet, whorish fucking mess to paint myself in as ugly of a light as a blacklight revealing the aftermath of my licentious display.

She held me down, so as not to shake too violently, she held her lips against mine till the moans I could not stifle died down. She even stealthily interlocked her fingers into mine, hiding our held hands behind a pillow.

'I love my hands being held...' I thought, feeling her warmth in my hands and my warmth on my embarrassingly flustered face.

When I open my eyes, I notice hers drinking my vulnerability in, and behind her, I notice what her foot had kicked. A fog machine.

Nobody could have seen anything beneath the belt.

She whispers into my ear:

"When you can use those lovely and lithe legs of yours, so you're not stumbling like a newborn fawn, I want to get a drink and this sweet-harted deer's number."

She takes a swig of the mix of my fluids and spiked punch, gives me a wink and a kiss.

I really have to get out more. <3

--

--

'Fuck, that was hot'

I wiped up the wet mess I had made, realizing it had begun to dry a bit, since I could only hold out until the part where she first started to cum, but I had kept reading.

I noticed there were three more attachments from Kait. The first a note-card, saying the next two pages would be heavy and touch on her trauma.

I wiped the tears I cried at my joy for her off of my face, wiped the vibe of my juices, and plugged it up, getting ready to read something that might bring tears of a different variety to my face.

I began to read the first entry.

--

--

November 14th

Day's end.

I attended a sexual health and domestic abuse lecture a few days ago, at Jane's request (Jane was the gal from the more lurid entry from September 20th).

After that, it wasn't so hard to find a support group on campus. With all the resources I've been given, I've had no trouble reading up on coping strategies. I also realized I had let slip that I was trans in the group, but nobody took issue. It seemed like one person there might, but she seemed to feel conflicted, since our stories were far too similar to look at me in such an othering light. I'm not writing what happened in the journal. I don't wish to think about it again.

I already knew consent was something that could only be established with a mutual display, acknowledgment, and acceptance of power imbalances of the social, emotional and financial variety. I knew that it meant nothing if either party ever felt like they couldn't revoke consent.

It wasn't easy to learn that, since I had a difficult upbringing and the school system found loopholes to not teach sex ed. I did learn, though, without much mental scarring. After internalizing that, I didn't get hurt much anymore. Even the few times I had to sell my body, I was discerning to not let that power imbalance hurt me.

The past few years, of course, it's all been a two way street.

Eventually, I got to the point in my sex life where I realized that most people whom I was lying with were nowhere near as emotionally put-together and as confident as I was. I realized that while things were mutual, and honestly a bit fun, it was never quite what I wanted. Sex is all fun and good, but I'm demi-romantic. A lack of a deep emotional bond meant more than half the fulfillment wasn't there.

So when I found a gal that was as confident as me, I was a bit smitten.

She was confident, yes, but what I have come to realize, as I acknowledge that it did happen, and as I now cast aside my blame for myself over what happened, is that she lacked something just as important as confidence. An equal desire for my holistic well-being as I had for hers.

She hurt me. I can't blame myself for that.

I can however, grow not just in spite of, but because of it.

I did a lot of thinking. About how impulsive I am, about how I should carry myself...

I realized that in a state where I am overstimulated or overly-excited, it's best to say no to sexual stuff, or anything with a big commitment for that matter. Running my mouth usually works out for me, silver tongue and all : p... But sex leaves me far too vulnerable to use that charisma of mine. In those states, it's not easy to throw a punch, and even harder to bring yourself to throw one.

Not just that, but if someone is willing to be manipulative or gaslight me afterwards, I'm far too out-of-it to even think rationally for a while.

Learning meditation and journaling has massively reduced my anxiety as well. I learned a technique where you cover a nostril and breathe in and out, then switch to covering the other nostril. It's pretty useful!

--

--

I open the next attachment, wiping a tear away.

--

--

November 15th

Day's end.

I took Jane out to a cafe today, and we watched the sun set after classes were over for the day.

I talked to Jane about how she didn't exactly ask for my consent the first time we met. She apologized, and said she knew better than to blame any substances.

I surprised her when I told her, "Thank you."

I told her that, "While I'm not happy you didn't ask for consent, you were, as I have come to see in our friendship, looking out for me." Recalling her saving me embarrassment, checking on me, thinking about me when she heard about the lecture and support group, and making note she wasn't trying to excuse herself.

She sighed, looking down with an embarrassed and apologetic smile. "I could've gone about it better."

"I also had the feeling you'd stop if I'd asked you to, so it's not like I can be all that mad", I said looking down at her, her dark smiling eyes meeting my own.

I spoke again, "What I've realized with your help, Lana's help, and some self-reflection, is that I like people who have a holistic interest in my wellbeing, not just an interest in my body."

I continued.

"You don't look at my eyes, you look at what's behind them. That's not something I get to enjoy often you know..."

That was the first time I saw her really blush. It's also the first time she really melted at the kiss I stole from her, witnessed by no-one but us and the setting sun herself.

--

--

'Gods damn it Kait, I love you. I can't wait to see you again.'

I wiped the tears from my eyes yet again, getting ready to close out of my Cryptbox before realizing a second letter had been sent.

I open it.

--

--

Hey Lana, I want you to meet Jane at some point. I did get your C-letter from 2 days ago saying you were dis-invited to your family's Winterfeast because you're queer. However, it ended up in the spam folder. I don't know how or why it did, but I am very sorry for not responding.

This leads me into a proposal to you.

Since you (I assume) don't have anywhere to be during Winterfeast, and since neither me nor Jane do either... Why don't you come visit?

Plane tickets are expensive (and honestly I am more weary of planes as the days pass with all the deregulation going on as of late : p), but with some extra cash I made with tutoring and selling some artworks, and a birthday gift of a few hundred cass from my grandma, a round trip is something I could easily cover the costs of for you now.

It won't be much, I know, but at least the dorm has an oven!

I miss you, Lana.

-Love, Kait

--

--

I wrote a reminder on my whiteboard to call her tomorrow when I was a little less sleep-deprived and teary-eyed.

'Miss you too, Kait...'

[1]This wasn't immediately clear to me, so I figured it would be good to clarify it as well.

[2]The original wording of this line tripped me up while reading; I hope you like what I've replaced it with, though!

[3]I figured this may be the intended date; the 8 in the middle didn't seem to correspond to anything that was spoken.

[4]While the old wording was technically grammatical, the combination of "her naked, face" in the middle of a longer sentence messed with the flow and could be misinterpreted.

[5]The tense in this section seems to be a mix of past and present; since this is an immersive retelling of events, I will assume the present tense is intended, and I'll adjust the wording as needed.

[6]The wording here was originally a little strange, but it gave me a bit of inspiration for an expansion of the existing metaphor. I hope you like it!