I love watching your Marco Polo videos. I especially like how, towards the end of the second one you sent yesterday, you are laying on the bed talking to me with the camera above you. This captures the angle from which I fell in love with you—lying on top of you, looking down at your face, you talking to me about yourself, about your feelings, about your life, about your desires.

It probably makes you self conscious to know that I pay close attention to everything you say. I can’t help it. I love. Therefore, I listen.

I listen to every word, even though I know that no one could possibly ever mean 100% of what they say, and that in outlying circumstances in which you DID mean all your spoken words, there would be a high likelihood that something, some nuance, would be lost in even my most diligent translation.

I am nonetheless enthralled when you share with me. I love talking to you, learning about you. When possible, I love watching your face as you explain and reveal to me. But just the sound of your voice on the phone grips me with the power to make me melt. It is a fact that you have make my panties wet in casual conversation.

I’d know your voice anywhere, in any one of its various forms. It betrays where you’ve come from—not just the Middle East of Texas, but oddly, also the Middle Bottom of California.

I love your voice in my ear telling me how wet my pussy has been getting lately. My wetness is a consequence, in part, of the sound of your voice. But also, just knowing you makes me wet.