Dear Ben,
It was wonderful meeting you yesterday. By the way, I’m Renée, and I work as a director at a major multinational. My hobbies include marathon running and reading, and I have a boyfriend whom I love dearly. Mostly because he lets me do crazy things!
I saw from the results that you bagged a personal best on Saturday, as did everyone who came in around 23 minutes with me, so I’ve sent you a couple of photographs. The first is me in my new swimwear, which my boyfriend took in our bedroom. I got plenty of appreciation as we played volleyball at the company conference in the pool at the hotel, as the bikini is smaller and skimpier than it looks here.
The second photo is from the naturist beach in Cap D’Agde. My boyfriend took this while I was lying face down on the sand, watching a couple fuck. She had long, bronzed legs and wrapped herself around the thick black piece of meat, desperately hammering into her. It was hot and got me very horny.
Tell me more about you. What do you do inside? What are your hobbies? Do you have a girlfriend or a wife? What do you do for conjugal visits? What are your dreams? Tell me!
Warmest regards,
Renée.
My sweetheart and me were always very active in the bedroom; with her schedule, it was often the only time we’d see each other or spend any time during the day, but with her newfound exposure kink, she’d been a wild vixen, demanding sex twice-daily. And sometimes more than that.
The curtains were never closed in the bedroom. We fucked in our non-overlooked garden, and a few days after the visit to the prison, we went to a well-known dogging spot, and screwed on a picnic table. There were a couple of voyeurs stroking themselves, but I didn’t like the vibe too much and we were glad we left shortly afterwards. It was an experience, but not one we wanted to repeat. Just too seedy.
A few days later, an envelope arrived at our house, addressed to my partner. Ben’s handwriting was incredibly neat, with each character delicately formed.
Dear Renée,
Thank you for the letter and the photos. You don’t know what it means to us in here. Everyone was desperate to see what the cheeky woman who came to our prison looked like. I grew up in London with two sisters and my mum. I’m 19 and eight months into a 27-month sentence for joyriding. And no girlfriend. Inside, I go to the gym a bit and read old paperbacks. The library’s full of dog-eared thrillers and war stories. But I love to read and have always gone through lots of books.
They don’t allow conjugal visits in this country. I wish they would, but I wouldn’t have anyone to visit me, anyway. My latest hobby is running. I wonder why that is! Dreams? Right now I dream about beating my 5k time of 23:31 on Saturday. I’d love to get out and see a beach like the one you described. Maybe even being naked on it. Or watching you run naked.
That would be good, too. I hope that’s not too forward, and please thank your boyfriend for being so understanding. You must have a very special relationship.
Warmest regards,
Ben
Renée laughed when she read Ben’s letter aloud to me in bed, her fingers tracing the ink where he’d pressed too hard on the page. “So sweet,” she murmured, folding the paper carefully. “And so polite.”
“I don’t think he is that polite and sweet when he’s knocking one out to your photographs,” I said as her fingers traced my thigh. “I checked, and he was four seconds outside his personal best this week.”
“Ahhh,” Renée teased. “I’ll write back when he beats his PB.”
My girlfriend had a busy weekend and week; she was away for two days on a business trip, and then we had to visit her sister on the Saturday to see the latest addition to her family. Five children, each with a different dad.
We discussed her next dare as we drove back from the chaotic three-bedroom council house. The “experience” that I was welcome to attend was a “life drawing class” with my girlfriend as their model.
“I’ll be naked,” she said. “But it’s art.”
The village hall hosted the Sunday afternoon session, with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Renée perched on a wooden stool in the centre of the room, in the midst of a semi-circle of a dozen amateur artists. Mostly middle-aged men clutching charcoal pencils, they stared openly as she disrobed, folding her silk kimono neatly beside her.
She’d spoken to the retired art teacher before the session and asked for “a more erotic pose,” promising that she was an experienced nudist and wanted to get her sexual and sensual body remembered artistically before “it all went south.”
She sat on the stool, knees slightly apart, shoulders rolled back, her hands resting lightly on her thighs, legs spread just wide enough to draw attention to the soft pink folds. The artists directly in front of her shifted uncomfortably as they sketched, their pencils scratching against paper, their gazes flickering between her face and her body.
Renée kept her experience neutral and stayed motionless. She breathed steadily, letting the air brush over her skin, her nipples stiffening under the attention. Behind her, the instructor murmured critiques – “Loosen your wrist,” “Pay attention to the shadows,” and “look at her bosom.” But Renée’s focus was on the man to her left. Late fifties, wedding ring, his charcoal smudged across his knuckles. He wasn’t sketching. He was staring, happy with his finished art.
“Five minute break and then we’ll do another pose,” the teacher called out, and Renée stretched her thighs, groaning as we walked around the semi-circle, admiring the artistic talent.
The second session was more sexual; she knelt on the dusty floor, legs apart and with her hands on her ankles, pushing her bosom forward.
Exposed completely. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at her curves and her folds, scrutinising her body. My sweetheart glanced at me as the instructor circled her slowly, pointing out the play of light across her collarbones, the tension in her thighs—but Renée knew they weren’t studying anatomy. This was an amateur class of varied talents. Some were much better than average, but others were not. My lover was not posing for accomplished or experienced artists.
She was exhibiting herself to a group of men who wanted to create art of bare women, and she enjoyed their lustful stares. Most of them had a wonderful view of her cunt. Her thighs spread wide enough that the dampness between them was visible under the harsh fluorescence. The instructor lingered behind her, his fingers twitching as he gestured toward the curve of her spine, highlighting what a number of the artists were drawing incorrectly. But Renée caught the way his gaze dipped lower, lingering where she was most open.
One artist, a balding man with ink-stained fingers, adjusted his trousers subtly. Another had a clear erection. And my partner’s exhibitionism had caused that.
The event ended with polite applause, though several “artists” lingered, packing their supplies slowly, stealing glances as she slipped her kimono back on. The instructor asked if she’d consider modelling again. “You have a remarkable presence,” he said, his voice strained, and Renée promised she would.
When we returned to her house, she checked Ben’s time and then begged me to photograph her with her Polaroid. Naked apart from an apron, she made coffee in her kitchen and took her pen and paper to the lounge to write to her prison pen pal. And the prints from the instant camera had a nostalgic naughtiness to them. Almost old-school taboo.
Dear Ben,
Congratulations on taking two seconds off your personal best this week. That’s really impressive and worth another letter and a couple of photographs! Especially after you enjoyed the last pictures I sent a fortnight ago. I modelled for a life-drawing class earlier and the instructor admired my “remarkable presence,” but I think he just liked the view!
It’s a shame that you don’t have a girlfriend, but I am sure that when you get out and turn your life around, these things will easily sort themselves out. I met my partner at 33, so you have plenty of time to find the right girl. What did you want to do when you were in school and college? What were your career aspirations?
This is my morning routine: after my boyfriend and I have sex, I get out of bed and then make coffee. I often do it nude, but this time Tom snapped a photo of me pouring cream into my mug and showing my bare butt.
I also did the World Naked Bike Ride and have included a picture of me painted chin to shin in body paint grinning at a photographer. That appeared on the Internet; I wonder how many people have seen it?
Tell me more about your dreams, Ben. Where would you travel? What would you eat? Who would you kiss first? And where?! I love my boyfriend kissing me all over, not just on my lips.
I expect 23:28 or below next Saturday. We believe in you. My friend bought me a vajazzle kit for Christmas, and I am opening it one evening this week. I may have my camera ready!
Warmest regards,
Renée.
She sealed her letter with a kiss, transferring crimson lipstick onto the page, before sealing it in the envelope. “You realise he’s going to have an unhealthy sexual interest in you,” I said.
“I’m fourteen years older than him,” Renée replied. “It’s just fun. Although part of me would love to know what it would be like to be naked in a mens’ prison. Frightening. But exhilarating.”
“It’d be a personal security nightmare,” I responded. “You’d be manhandled. Or assaulted. Or worse.”
Renée sighed. “That’s quite a common fantasy,” she admitted. “I’d love to go back to experimenting with orgies or wife-swapping, or swinging.” There was a silent pause between us as she stared at my expression, waiting for a response. “What would you say to that?”
“Your former partner cheated on you. My ex ran off with her new lover. Hasn’t that scarred you?”
Renée sighed. “A bit. But it was the dishonesty that screwed the relationship. You must have imagined a threesome. Especially after Cap D’Agde.”
“No,” I lied. She raised her eyebrow; it was an unfair match-up as she easily guessed my lie. “OK, a bit. A lot. But some fantasies shouldn’t be realities.”
She nodded. “Why?” she asked. “Why can’t we explore this together? It’s got a term, ethical non-monogamy.”
“I’m … not sure about this. It feels … weird.”
“OK, honey.” She presented me with her sultriest expression. “Imagine two women kneeling before your cock, taking turns deep-throating it.”
“You’re telling me to think with my dick, not my heart or my head!”
She admitted to that allegation; I didn’t agree to anything, but she planted that seed in my mind, and from that point onwards, the idea of multiple people joining us in the bedroom took root in my daydreams and my fantasies.
The following Friday, Renée and I went to a seedy joint in the city centre, with dim lighting, sticky floors, and an eclectic clientele. It wasn’t a “swingers bar” with playrooms and a no-questions-asked attitude to the darker corners, but it had a reputation. She wore her shortest dress with no underwear, this time paired with knee-high boots; the low-cut style of the garment pushed her breasts up, glistening with some sort of oil that caught the neon lights.
As I bought the drinks, she set up the balls on one of the pool tables, and I rolled my eyes as I approached the green baize. “You’re not dressed for playing pool.”
“No. I’m dressed perfectly for the pool table!” she replied with a wide grin; I knew what she meant. Her cue slid through her fingers with ease as her first strike sent the balls scattering. But as she bent over the table, her dress rose, exposing her buttocks to the entire bar. A man at the adjacent game choked on his beer, his eyes glued to her. Another adjusted himself discreetly. Renée didn’t react, except for the slightest smirk as she lined up her next shot.
All three pool games drew spectators, but we had more. Not because of our skill, as we missed easy pots, but because every time Renée bent over for her turn, her dress inched higher. When she had to stretch and put her left thigh on the edge of the table, someone in the crowd whistled. Murmurs rippled throughout the establishment.
I found it arousing; I loved to see my girlfriend on display, especially when she pocketed the black ball and got a smattering of applause.
A young woman approached—short, dark-haired, tattooed, and with a confident smirk. She leaned against the wall beside Renée. “Nice technique,” she murmured, nodding toward Renée’s grip on the cue. “Fancy a game?”
“Sure,” my partner replied.
“A wager?”
“How much?”
“A round for my man and me,” she said, pausing. “But you order it from the bar without that pretty black dress on.”
Renée chuckled. “Deal. Same for me and my boyfriend.” She gestured to me as her opponent took the cue from my grip.
The tattooed woman grinned, sliding into position. The stranger was an excellent pool player and sank three balls before Renée even got her second shot. My girlfriend missed a couple of easy pots, deliberately I suspect, but her inked rival breezed through the seven stripes while my girlfriend had pocketed just two of her spots.
The bar had gone quiet except for the clack of balls and the occasional stifled groan when Renée bent generously over the table. Renée’s dress rode up further with each shot. By the time the dark-haired woman sank the black ball, everyone in the room had seen my girlfriend’s buttocks and labia. The tattooed opponent smirked and clicked her fingers. “Dress?” She demanded. “And then go get our drinks,” she said, patting her defeated rival’s barely clothed derriere. “Just as we agreed. Two pints of lager.”
Renée didn’t stop smiling as jeers and cheers drowned the quietness. She shrugged, pulling the dress over her head and tossing it to the victorious player. Completely naked except for her knee-high boots, she walked confidently to the bar, her ponytail swinging, surrounded by men.
I felt conflicted; hands grazed her bare skin, but she revelled in the attention and the touch, and my cock was rock hard underneath my jeans. The tattooed woman invited me to their table and introduced herself as “Jane” while my girlfriend bought four lagers.
Renée returned with the frothy beers on a tray, placing them between us before sitting naked on the stool beside me. “Bottoms up!” She remarked, holding a glass of lager aloft.
Jane smirked, lifting hers in salute, her dark eyes flickering between Renée’s glistening curves and the growing tent in my trousers. “So,” she asked, taking a sip. “You two swingers? Not seen you ‘round here before.”
Renée shook her head. “We’re not there yet,” she admitted, glancing at me. “Maybe one day.”
“A few of the regulars copped a feel,” Jane’s partner added, nodding towards the bar.
“Yeah, I know. And when I carried the tray.”
Jane leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “You didn’t stop them?”
Renée shrugged. “Why would I? It’s just hands. And I am naked.”
“You like it,” the tattooed victor suggested, voice low. “Being touched. Watched.” Her fingers tapped the table near Renée’s thigh, not quite touching her. “You get off on it.” She turned to me, tilting her head. “What about you? You enjoyed watching.”
Renée answered before I could, swirling her beer in the glass. “He enjoys it far more than he admits.” She nudged my knee with hers, teasing me. I knew that to be true, and we chatted to the pair of swingers as we drank our lager. Before we left, we had another match of pool, with my lover posing for my camera in the dark bar, sitting on the corner of the game table nearly naked. One, with her fingers in the pocket hiding her sex, and the other with her hands behind her head.
The conversation had certainly demystified up some possibilities for us; swinging didn’t seem so scary after that chat and Jane promised that act itself of sharing your partner with another is so erotic, that even if the sex is so-so, the experience is incredible.
And Renée did not mention it any further; we fucked when we got home, and again on Saturday morning, before I helped my girlfriend play with her vajazzle kit.
Which was just as well, as an envelope arrived on Monday with a page of neat handwriting contained within.
Dear Renée,
Your photographs are incredible, and your letters are a real inspiration. I’ve been training non-stop since your last letter! The guys here have been helping me work out, and we’ve been allowed to use the course during the week. I think the wardens just want to see what photo you’ll send next.
It’s been weird to be the focus of the wing. Everyone asks how I’m doing and I feel pressure to beat 23:28 this Saturday. It’s some motivational technique, but I know that half the wing have signed up just to cheer me over the line.
I wish our coffee came like that. You have wonderful curves. All the guys say so. And I loved the photograph of the naked bike ride. You have so much confidence. Sometimes at night, I imagine you riding me instead of that bike. I hope that’s not too rude, but you are so sexy and so beautiful. I still pinch myself that you write to me and share your photos.
I was hoping to do an accountancy course and may return to that. I don’t have many dreams, but I’d love to meet a sexy girl, marry her and settle down in a nice house. Walking hand-in-hand on the beach at sunset would be amazing.
Where would I travel? Now that you’ve shown me, Cap d’Agde. What would I eat? The biggest pizza I could find. Who would I kiss first? Any girl as beautiful as you. And where? Everywhere. Please tell me you have a sister who has the hots for a wayward prisoner who screwed up his life because he followed his friend into a stolen motor?
Fingers crossed I beat my personal best again, but it’s getting so hard.
Warmest regards,
Ben
Renée logged onto the website when she returned home and whooped in delight. “He knocked a second off his PB!”
“That’s the way to do it,” I said. “There’s no point smashing it by twenty seconds and not being able to get near it for three months. He’s doing it one baby step at a time.”
She giggled as I fried the bacon for our meal. “I suppose I’d better write back.” She propped her chin on her hand as she watched me add garlic and then cream cheese to the pot. “How do you think it will pan out with me and Ben? He really has the hots for me.”
“I reckon you are in his wank bank for life. Completely. We know boundaries, but does he?” I asked.
“Oh, you find it hot, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “It’s weirdly erotic that you encourage strange men to want to fuck you.”
She smirked as she took out her pad. “Well, let’s get him to want to fuck me a bit more.”
Dear Ben,
Another personal best. Wow! I have two photographs for you, and they come with a little story. First off, I do not have an eligible sister. Thank you for your lovely, sweet, and sexy comments about me. It’s not too rude to say that you want to screw me, but if you make that comment to a woman on the third exchange of saucy letters then you need to describe it a lot more.
Tell me what you think, what you feel, and what you’d do. Make me need to reach for my vibrator as I read your letter. The hornier I am, the dirtier the photographs I choose to send you!
My first photograph comes from a bar we visited. I wore a very short dress, and I chose not to wear any underwear. Then, I played pool, and half the bar saw me as I bent over, exposing my buttocks and my … ahem, special place. Can you imagine that? So, a woman challenged me, and whoever lost had to order a round without their clothes on. And she was a very good player and won. So, in front of dozens of people, and wearing just a smile and my boots, I bought drinks as strangers touched and patted my bare flesh. And afterwards we took a picture at the pool table.
My other photograph is a close-up of the vajazzle set. I didn’t like it, and it irritated so I removed the crystals, but photographed it before I did so. What do you think? It’s just a simple red heart over my pubis.
I’m glad you are committed to your training. You’re getting faster every week. Soon you’ll be running as fast as I do. Maybe we can jog together one day. Or race. It was warm on Saturday, so I bet you were sweaty. I was when I went for a run. I wore my tiny shorts and a tight crop top. No underwear again. It’s comfortable, and it’s exciting. Especially when I pass men working outdoors. The builders whistled. Guys stare. I like the attention.
Ben, do you think about me when you’re running? I think about you sometimes. Wondering if you are picturing me naked when you lie in your bunk at night. Do you touch yourself thinking about me? I masturbate all the time, fantasising about people watching me. Like at Cap d’Agde. Or that bar. Or when I imagine you in your cell, staring at my photos.
I dream about that sometimes.
This week, I have a professional boudoir photoshoot with some close friends of mine. It’s a three-hour session with proper photographers as a group of us celebrate a birthday and get drunk. For every second you beat your personal best on Saturday, I’ll send you a separate photograph from that shoot.
Ben, I want you to push yourself. To run until your lungs burn and your legs wail in agony. To think about my exposed body when you’re gasping for air, my curves when your muscles scream. Imagine me waiting for you at the finish line. Naked, glistening, my thighs parted to entice. Ready for you. Eager for you.
That’s the extra carrot. Here’s the stick: if you do not beat your personal best this Saturday, I won’t write until the end of the month. No letters, no pictures. For a fortnight. So dig deep, my filthy pen pal. Make it hurt. You’ll have to work harder than ever. But I believe in you. We both do.
Either you get a lovely treat this time next week, or you will have blue balls until the end of the month. What’s it to be?
Sluttiest regards,
Renée.
“Too much?” She asked.
I put a plate of steaming macaroni cheese on her placemat. “A bit. You’re encouraging him to imagine sleeping with you.”
She smiled. “I know. Who do you think about when you have a wank?”
I sighed. “I barely get a chance. We have sex most days. I don’t need to knock one out.”
“Ahhh,” she teased. “Poor Tommy doesn’t jerk off because his girl is a nympho!”
“Well, quite,” I remarked.
And my high-flying girlfriend picked up her fork and hovered over the steaming meal. “I can solve that problem,” she said. “How about we find a swingers’ club to help share the load a little more?”
She spoke with a wide grin and in jest, but she would not have uttered it if she wasn’t thinking it more and more.
