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11-15-2003, 06:42 PM
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The Seduction of Mrs. Jones
Closed for Maid of Marvels and Myself
Please read along and enjoy. Please feel free to PM with any comments.
Emily Jones is a married woman, still in love with her husband of ten years, but sharing mostly space and time. Childless, she’s stuck working in a busy office with several dozens of other employees, male and female. It has become a rut, day after day, but today is different.
Today, on Emily’s desk is a single red rose, sitting on an unsealed envelope. The scent of a mans cologne mixing with the perfume of the rose. Inside the envelope, handwritten on fine linen stationary is this letter.
My dearest Emily,
My heart can no longer contain the feelings it has for you. I must tell you my thoughts my desires, my passions.
If I could spend just one day with you, I'd savor each and every smile. I'd hold your hand as we strolled through the park, and we'd talk, we’d talk about love.
If I could spend just one evening with you, I'd spend it looking into your eyes, and with a single smile, you'd see how much I love you.
If I could spend just one night with you, I'd show you what passion lives within my heart.
If I could spend my life with you, I'd bring you joy and happiness, days filled with passionate bliss.
Alas Sweet Emily, is this but the dreams of a lonely heart, a heart that weeps at your every passing.
Take this Rose my Darling Emily, for it is the only face I dare show you today. Hold it near so it may know true beauty, and you may know the scent of my love.
And so, the seduction begins.
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11-15-2003, 07:42 PM
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The rose on her desk caught her eye immediately of course, but it was the envelope beneath that drew her attention. Finding it unsealed, she lifted the flap and drew out the letter that it held.
"What in the world?" she mused aloud as she read the letter. Despite the dawning realization that she was reading something so obviously not meant for herself, she read it a second time, turning it over to look at the back before reading it a third. Emily wasn't an uncommon name. It had probably been misdirected.
Emily Jones pressed the button on the intercom that connected to her secretary's desk. "Janet, do me a favor. Call personnel and ask them to locate any other Emily's employed here. Then have them send the names to me. Thanks. And yes, please. I will take that coffee you offered me earlier now."
While she waited, Emily's fingertips absent-mindedly traced over the uneven handwriting. Letter by letter. Word by word. Paragraph by paragraph. The cool, smoothness of the stationery. The faint scent of cologne intermingling with that of the rose. She was overwhelmed by a sense of bittersweet longing and couldn't help but feel a little jealous of the Emily whom this man loved so very dearly.
Her eyes wandered back to the rose and she picked it up gently, unable to resist inhaling the rich, heady fragrance. Its deep scarlet petals were soft as velvet where they brushed against her lips. Emily Jones smiled wistfully, remembering a time when she, too, had been in love this way.
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11-15-2003, 08:21 PM
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Join Date: Nov 2002
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Emily had finally returned the letter to its envelope and set it almost reverently on the corner of her desk, placing the rose gently on top. She didn't worry about it wilting, the stem was encased in one of thost test tubes florists used. Even so, she couldn't help thinking it was a pity not to have it displayed in a bud vase for all to admire.
The morning passed slowly. She struggled to keep her attention focused on her work despite the fact that her eyes and thoughts kept wandering. She wondered what he looked like and what the real Emily would think when she read her lover's words. She found herself feeling a bit possessive, in fact. Hoping that the other Emily (as she had come to think of her) would cherish his words the way she would do if they had been meant for herself.
Finally, unable to bear the waiting any longer, Emily pressed the button on the intercom. "Janet? Did you hear back from Personnel yet?"
"They only just called back, Mrs. Jones. It seems you are the only Emily here. Yes, I made them check and double check -- even the housekeeping staff. I'm sorry. What is this all about anyway?"
"Thanks a bunch, Janet. It's nothing important really. Just going on a whim. Say, Jan?"
"Yes?"
"Did you see anyone come into my office this morning before I got here? Anyone. Anyone at all?"
"No, ma'am. I've been here since eight as usual. No one gets past Eagle-eye Harmon. You know that. Ohh... " Janet paused as if a light bulb had suddenly lit up in her head. "If all this is about the rose and the note -- I've been dying to know myself who left it. It was already there when I came in this morning. Is it from your husband?"
"Yes. And no, it's not from Harvey. Thanks, Janet. You're a peach." Emily's fingers went back to the letter and the rose. It had to have been misdirected, she sighed. Since there was no card and nothing further to identify the sender, Emily Jones argued her right to take at least temporary possession -- just for safekeeping. She just couldn't let the flower sit there. No, the rose and the sentiment behind it deserved special recognition in the real Emily's absence.
Standing up, Emily opened the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet knowing she had a bud vase stashed there. It wasn't crystal, or even cut glass, but it would serve. She'd bring something more elegant to place it in from home tomorrow.
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11-15-2003, 08:23 PM
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With the beginning of a new day, an other single red rose sits on the desk of Mrs. Emily Jones. The letter beneath it.
My Dearest Emily,
If loving you is a crime, then I am guilty of this crime, guilty of this sweet taboo. I would spend a hundred years, five hundred, a thousand locked away in the darkest dungeons if I could spend just one minute locked in your sweet embrace. If it were a sin to press my lips to yours just once, I would spend all of eternity in damnation for that sweet pleasure. My heart aches at your every passing, but there is no cure for my malady. My heart needs no cure but to gaze upon your radiant face, to hear your breathless whisper, to touch your soft hand in innocent exchange. Your glance sets my passion ablaze that an ocean of waves could not quench.
Come Emily, let us run away, and escape the chains that keep us apart. I long for the day that I can lay my hand upon your soft cheek, to press my lips to your graceful neck and feel the pulse of your heart beneath them. Come with me Emily, let us run.
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11-16-2003, 03:04 AM
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The next morning there was a new letter and a fresh rose. And the next. And the next. Emily found herself looking at her desk before she did anything else when she got to the office.
On the third day, Emily had brought a small box to keep the letters in. It was black lacquer with an inlaid mother of pearl design in the top and sides and a tiny oriental lock to keep them safe from prying eyes. She placed it almost reverently in the bottom drawer of her desk, taking it out each morning to reread each in turn before adding the newest to the steadily growing pile. It had become a ritual for her in a way. As if she were the guardian of some grand treasure.
In a way, that's how she felt about the notes that continued to appear mysteriously on her desk. Emily still believed that they were meant for someone other, but slowly had begun to imagine that they were indeed meant for herself. She tried to picture him in her mind's eye as she breathed in the scent of his cologne that wafted up from the box each morning as she opened it. Wondered what his voice sounded like. Imagined the feel of his mouth on her neck. The touch of his hands.
There were now five perfect roses in the vase on her desk and she'd started coming in a little earlier to see if she could catch the person who'd been leaving them, but to no avail.
And now here it was -- Friday. The next two days she would be away from the office. Three days until the next letter. Or would he leave letters on Saturday and Sunday, too? Maybe he wouldn't leave one on Monday after all. His Emily had obviously not replied so why would he continue? Why did it matter so much to her if he did? She was a married woman, for crying out loud -- and certainly not the Emily these were intended for.
Not for the first time, Emily Jones felt a slight pang of guilt at having deceived the attentive lover whose romantic imagery had begun to fill her days. Regardless of the fact that he wasn't aware that the letters had been misdirected -- they had been, hadn't they? -- she felt as if she owed him an explanation. When all was said and done, she was nothing better than a voyeur. Eavesdropping on someone else's love affair.
Emily sighed. There was no reason to believe that there would be yet another love letter on Monday. If there was, she would reply. If only to apologize... and thank him for helping her to remember what it had been like to love someone the way that he loved.
She looked around the office one last time as she headed for home. Two days. No, three. Monday. For the first time in over fifteen years at this job, she was sorry to see a weekend come and longed for Monday to return.
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11-16-2003, 07:46 PM
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![Graybread's Avatar](customavatars/avatar16741_0.gif) |
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Monday morning, another rose, and a special letter.
My Dearest Emily,
The weekends are so terribly lonely without the sound of your sweet voice, the light of your beautiful face, the fire in your sparkling eyes. Time crawls without your presence near me. But a new day has come, the long weekend over. Oh my sweet Emily, I long to hold you, to wrap you in my arms, and feel your warm breasts pressed against my chest. To press my lips just once upon yours and let you taste the love I have for you. I know there is passion in you, my sweet Emily, I see it in your every movement, your every glance, I year it in your every word. Run away with me Emily, let me take you to the exotic places of the world. The city of lovers, the temple of Aphrodite, the white sands of a deserted island where we could lay naked, and make love under the sun, and forget about time. Run with me Emily to the special places of the world. But alas, I fear that time is not yet, and so I give you a song to tell you of my passions. Dream of me sweet Emily, for my love is like a river flowing to the sea.
Ooh baby, mm
When you hold me
Oh oh, when you hold me
The sound
Is it possible I could feel this cool
I could really love you the way I do
Is it possible I could feel this good
I could really love you the way I do
See me (Within the light)
Flowing (Take me to you)
Like the river to the sea
You come down (I'm in the light)
You cover (Pull me to you)
And the waves rush over me
I feel a love light rush over me
I feel the love turn to me
And then your love just creeps over me
Over me
See me (Within the light)
Flowing (Take me to you)
Like the river to the sea
You come down (I'm in the light)
You cover (Pull me to you)
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11-16-2003, 09:01 PM
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The weekend had dragged on interminably. Emily busied herself in the garden and played catch up with laundry and cleaning, food shopping -- all the things she didn't have time for during the week. Harvey, too, was in and out -- golf and errands, mowing the lawn; basically doing his own thing as well. They rarely did anything as a couple anymore outside of mandatory family functions which didn't seem to come very often outside of holidays.
Sunday night she'd begun counting the hours until work. Harvey gave her a few questioning glances, but he didn't ask and she certainly didn't tell. There was something intimate and deeply personal about the letters that made it seem almost sacrilegious to discuss them with anyone. Including and especially Harv.
Emily tossed and turned all night, finally waking three hours early for work. She showered and dressed, fiddling over toast and coffee until six thirty; putzed around with the computer for another half hour and finally headed out the door when she decided it wouldn't look too strange if she were only an hour and a half early for work.
The building was virtually empty when she arrived, so Emily didn't have to stop and make small talk on the way to her office. Ridiculous as it seemed, her heart was pounding with anticipation as she neared the door. Had he left another letter over the weekend or had he realized they had gone to the wrong person? Something deep inside her hoped that he had left one -- even if they weren't meant for her.
Emily paused, hand on the doorknob, closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning it. When she opened them and stepped in, the first place she looked was her desk.
Had he?
He had!
Pushing the door closed behind herself, Emily hurried to her desk. This was utterly ridiculous and she knew it -- but she just couldn't help herself. Doing as she had done for the last four mornings, Emily inhaled the fragrance of the rose before reverently picking up the envelope and removing the single sheet from inside.
She read it slowly, savoring every word and nuance. Then she read it again. She didn't recognize the lyrics and set the letter aside while she did a quick online search. Flow by Sade. She would pick up the CD at lunchtime.
And now it was time to go back to the others. What had become a ritual demanded she complete it.
Emily unlocked the drawer and removed the ornate box she kept the others in. She'd discreetly penciled numbers under the flaps to keep them in order, though she knew she'd never forget which was the first and which was the sixth, their every word so indelibly etched in her mind.
She could smell a trace of his cologne as she unlocked and lifted the lid. It was rich and musky. Manly yet sensuous. She knew that he was passionate from his words alone, though she wondered what he looked like. Not that it mattered -- but she wondered all the same.
Emily Jones sighed wistfully, adding the newest missive to the steadily growing stack and gently tucked them back into their box for safekeeping. Now she would add the rose to the vase and she could begin her day.
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11-18-2003, 12:28 AM
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Sitting on the desk of Mrs. Emily Jones, another letter, another rose.
My Dearest Emily,
I wish I had the gift of rhyme, Emily, for my heart is filled with poetry for my love for you. But I fear I cannot, for you are the poem, and I have not the words to compare to you. You are a ballad, sweet Emily, a ballad of love in your every move, you every smile and glance. You are, as they say, ‘Poetry in motion’.
I watch as you move by me. The swing of your hair, the sway of your hips, the bounce of your breast. I long to hold your naked breast in my hand, to feel the heat of your passion, to suckle your rigid nipple and taste your desires. I dream of you in my bed Emily, my hand along your silken thigh, your hair spread across my pillows, your eyes dreamy with your passions. For you are the poem Emily, my poem of forbidden passion, my sweet taboo.
Come to me Emily, let us find our secret place in a world of heated love and passionate desires.
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