Letter’s from her twin sister describing daring sexual escapades in exotic locales transport a quiet, reserved woman into her own world of romance and seduction where men lust after her

Except for the fact that we look alike, you couldn’t find two people more different than my twin sister Tracey and me. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the sensible sister, holding down a nine-to-five job, driving an economy car and making regular payments on my little house in the suburbs. It’s the kind of life I need, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

Tracy, on the other hand, couldn’t stay put if she tried. After high school she began to travel, picking up odd jobs, having affairs in faraway places and always writing home the most marvelous descriptions of her latest exploits. Never mind that every so often she’d wire me for a quick loan or show up on my doorstep needing a place to rest and gather her forces. I was always glad to see my exotic sister.

I guess you could say I lived vicariously through my sister, because every time another fat letter arrived, I didn’t just read it, I lived it — in a fantasy of my own that was every bit as lush and exotic as the version in Tracy’s letters. Tracy would probably laugh and hug me if she knew how much private sensual pleasure I derived from the details of her carefree life, but she’ll never know. My sexual fantasies are my own private secret. It suits me just fine that no one but me knows the richness of my fantasy life.

The little ritual I go through is an important part of the pleasure when one of Tracy’s missives arrives in the mail. First, I take a hot bath to wipe away the mundane pressures of my workday; then I dress in the red silk kimono Tracy brought back from Japan on one of her unannounced visits. I light an incense stick she sent me from India, pour myself a glass of good sherry and settle into the comfort of my bedroom.

Then I’m ready to open her letter, which is invariably laden with colorful stamps and the red imprint of Tracy’s lips, her trademark. I begin my journey into the erotic world of my twin. As I read her words, I picture my sister, her henna-dyed curls and her lavishly made-up eyes. I know that if I tried, I could achieve the same effect. After all, we are identical twins. But I prefer a more modest appearance. My exotic nature thrives within me.

“Dear Tina,” her letter began. “I have just arrived in Paris — the City of Love, the poets say — and I have discovered the passion and romance of this great European city.” Tracy never wasted time in getting to the description of her latest romantic fling.

I read slowly, savoring her words, as the sherry relaxed my body. Her naturally sensual ways of seeing the world evoked a real-life scene before me, around me, inside me. As I read, I became Tracy. Her letter came to life, as if our twin natures harmonized.

“… on the Champs Élysées of all places, with the mad traffic and historical buildings, this adorable boy is trying to pick me up. A Mick Jagger look-alike, only cuter. You know what I mean?”

I may have been the sensible sister, but l wasn’t naive. I knew what she meant. I’d read all the current literature and was no stranger to the kind of encounter Tracy was describing, at least not in theory. To have my twin sister living out similar stories only made them more real to me, more like my own. By the second read, Tracy and I had blended completely. I could vividly imagine myself strolling down that Parisian avenue, smiling at the most adorable Frenchman who simply won’t leave me alone.

He’s handsome, well-built and well dressed, an animal strength breathing beneath a finely tailored suit, and, along with that inimitable French charm, he possesses confidence, arrogance. His smile is as disarming as his direct, mischievous green eyes. I can see him looking at my ass as I saunter down the street, but I pretend to ignore him.

I can feel the electric charge welding us together. Slowly we pull each other in, until we are walking arm in arm, our hips bumping together, letting our eyes rest longer on each other’s body. His name is Charles. I accept his invitation to have coffee, and we stop in at one of the many outdoor cafes that line the street, which are filled with potential lovers.

I love the way his name sounds spoken in the French way, and I let it roll softly over my tongue and lips like a kiss. Charles suggests Pernod instead of coffee, and he toasts the thrill we are getting from being together. I can feel my body responding to his, but I only give him a sign with my eyes and my smile. He uses his charming grin to full advantage as his hands begin to play beneath my skirt.

I change position and manage to grind my thighs against his. His hand retreats, then starts to explore again; he will discover I’m wearing no underpants. Lowering my eyelids, I wait for the contact of his fingers against my labia, and when it comes l suck in a little sigh and bite my lip. Responding, I reach beneath the table and hold his hard penis in my hand. I can’t believe all that is one man as my fingers grope along the length of him.

I dwelt awhile on this image and my mind began to float, fueled by Tracy’s words as she revealed how the two of them finally rented the first hotel room they could find and hastily shed their clothes. Where her description left off, my imagination took over.

I am lying on white silk sheets, a canopy above me, a full-length mirror on the wall in front of me. Charles is crossing the room toward the bed, his impressive stalk pointing straight out. I can’t take my eyes off it, and Charles seems to love showing it off. He must have seen the same admiring look on other women’s faces in other hotel rooms.

My vision of him as a bad boy only added to my pleasure. At home in my bed, I closed my eyes and let Tracy’s letter fall to the floor. My thighs squeezed my hand, but it was Charles’ manhood I was feeling.

I could picture him perfectly above me, a frame rippling with tight muscles, a face like an angel and a penis of my own concocting. The languorous in-and-out stroke of my fingers in my vagina became the thick sliding of my fantasy lover’s cock. I was all wet and sticky with cream. My walls were coated with it as I spread to take all of him inside me.

I had completely transported myself into my fantasy, and when I came, it was like stepping on a cloud. My whole body shuddered, cradled in the folds of my kimono, my sheets in disarray. I could smell the pungent perfume of my pussy as I raised my fingers to my lips. But to me it was Charles’ essence I inhaled deeply.

Slowly the image of decadent sexual play in a foreign hotel room dispersed. I opened my eyes and saw the familiar walls of my comfortable home. I’d just been off with Tracy, and now I was back, safe and sound, though satisfied beyond words.

My routine hardly ever varied. I worked all day, came straight home, fixed dinner for one and read until bedtime. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I had ballet class, for which I had very little talent and much passion. I met my girlfriends for a movie on Saturday nights, and on Sundays we gathered for a champagne brunch. Only when a letter from Tracy came did my life resonate on a deeper level.

I dated occasionally, but I seemed to intimidate most men with my self-reliance. I needed a man who could handle a mature, stable woman, and they weren’t easy to find. That’s why Tracy’s letters were so important to me. Her adventures ignited my own fantasies of a different life, a life of sensuous encounters that would give vent to my own powerful emotions.

“Dear Tina,” another letter began, “you’ll never believe the adventure I’ve just had.”

Oh, yes, I would. After putting in a hard week at the office, I was more than ready for a flight of fantasy. Checking the postmark on Tracy’s letter, I saw that this night’s rendezvous would be in Bali, of all places. Leave it to Tracy to travel fast and light, always stumbling onto pleasure without even trying.

As I began to read, I could feel the hot sand beneath my bare feet. The setting sun made red-and-gold ripples on a placid sea. Exotic birds called from the jungle trees, a cascading medley of mysterious sounds. I gave myself a few minutes to bring Tracy’s descriptions into focus as I lounged in my living room atop a nest of pillows.

When I had the scene planted firmly in my mind, I began to imagine a lover who would send the experience into every comer of my body. My sister and I do have one thing in common: We are both attracted by the same physical qualities in a guy. So, it is easy to transform her Balinese lover into my own.

With smooth, hairless skin and a taut, muscular body, he is dressed in the traditional Balinese skirt from waist to ankle. He approaches, walking with a perfect sense of balance, a sensual grace inherited from his ancestors. Yes, yes, I can see him. He’s so close now, I can almost reach out and touch him.

Crouching in the sand at my feet, he perches lightly as a seabird, letting the cloth of his skirt pull apart at the knees. I have a perfect view of his glistening penis, its head raised, its shaft thrusting toward me. It undulates before me like a mesmerizing serpent. It is nearly impossible to look away from it and gaze into his coal-black eyes.

He is tenderness combined with lust, a reincarnation of his ancient gods, the rulers of this island paradise, and of all the mountains and seas that surround us. We begin our lovemaking cradled in the very lap of love-a slim, moonlit cove. We are two hungry creatures groping together in the wet sand.

I can feel his strong legs on either side of my body. His hands pull away my thin cotton dress and begin to roam my breasts and belly with a light touch that sends currents right through me. His cock impales me and moves within me like a puppet into the most elaborate positions. I follow him like a shadow dancer as I writhe on my bed of pillows, my pussy hot with cream.

Suddenly my body contracts in a convulsive orgasm. I can still feel the sand beneath my back, the hard pillars of his arms and the pounding of his flesh against mine. It’s a long time before my senses calm themselves, before I fully come back to myself. My fantasy is ending, but I luxuriate in the well of desire I have created. I will still get turned on hours later by one quick flashback of my orgy of Balinese lust.

As a matter of fact, over time l have learned how to summon any one of my many fantasies to my mind whenever l want a quick pick-me-up. Although I haven’t given up my ritualized evenings inspired by letters from Tracy, I have found that my powers of imagination have matured. I can take a fantasy break like others take a coffee break without even leaving my chair. I just daydream my way into one of the many sex scenes I have already visited, close my eyes and free my body to respond.

The result has been that I maintain a constant sexual buzz, an undertone of sexuality I can build on once I’m in the privacy of my own home. I delight in these self-styled fantasies whenever I feel life getting a bit too routine. I still maintain my predictable patterns, but now I have a foolproof way to add a few twists and turns, when and where and with whom I choose.

My latest favorite fantasy escape comes to mind. The first time I indulged in this particular dreamscape was after one of my ballet classes. We’d had a visiting instructor, a male dancer from a New York touring company, who was absolutely thrilling to watch. My head was still filled with visions of the effortless grand jetés he executed high in the air.

He was already so perfectly formed that I didn’t need to change a thing, just imagine what I’d seen-adding myself, of course, as his partner. I must have danced around my living room for an hour, doing a freestyle blend of sensuous bends, stretches and dips, all of which were performed in the imaginary arms of my latest fantasy man.

I could see myself dressed in filmy whites. He was wearing skintight pants, and his chest was bare. I swirled and draped myself around him. My muscles flexed as I twined my leg around his legs, then sinuously lowered myself so that my mouth passed over his bare torso, down over his snugly held penis bulge and along his rock-hard thighs. My fantasy was so real to me that I could feel the heat of his body and imagine us performing before an admiring crowd.

Finally, hot and sweaty from my exertions and breathing deeply, I let myself fall to the floor. Completely won over by the beauty of my dance, my fantasy partner lowers himself to me. We roll back and forth in an inspired embrace, tasting each other with our mouths and tongues, pulling desperately at our thin leotards until they shred like tissue.

My eyes may be closed, but in my mind, I see his strong muscles flex and strain above me; he holds my body tightly against his own as he begins to jab with his cock. I spread my legs and let him sink in, deep and long, feeling every inch of his manhood filling my vagina with creamy come. As I lie on the floor recovering my breath, I relive the passionate highs of our fantasy dance and fantasy fuck until I have finally worn myself out with pleasure.

As you can see, my fantasies are pretty hot. In fact, until I began to use Tracy’s letters to inspire me, I was never aware that so much erotic potential lay hidden in the recesses of my own imagination. Now I know that with or without my twin’s adventures, I am free to find love and excitement in my own fantasy world anytime of the day or night.