The Pleasure of M (11 page)

Yours,
 
Catherine”
 

Michel
  clearly
  had
  some
  understanding
  of
  the
  magnitude,
  at
  least,
  of
  the
  effect
  he
 
had
 on
 her
 but
 felt
 no
 shame
 or
 guilt
 given
 how
 much
 she
 affected
 him.
 He
 did
 know
 
that
  the
  art
  of
  creating
  fiction
  when
  shared
  yields
  fantasies
  that
  easily
  enmesh
 
themselves
 with
 the
 reality
 shared
 with
 those
 around
 us.
 He
 had
 read
 Stendhal
 and
 
others
  who
  were
  enthralled
  by
  the
  sensual
  dimension
  that
  could
  accompany
  such
 
escapades
  and
  marveled
  at
  how
  lucky
  he
  was
  to
  experience
  such
  things.
  He
 
continued
  to
  take
  her
  places,
  sometimes
  ahead
  of
  one
  of
  her
  own
  trips
  with
  her
 
husband,
 injecting
 himself
 into
 her
 daily
 life
 even
 more.
 
 

Not
 a
 beach
 in
 Mexico
 but
 an
 island,
 in
 the
 pacific.
 One
 of
 those
 little
 islands
 in
 the
 
Marquesas.
  We
  are
  walking
  on
  the
  beach,
  hand
  in
  hand,
  naked.
  It
  is
  a
  small
  cove
 
nested
 at
 the
 foot
 of
 the
 steep
 jungle-‐laden
 hillside.
 We
 arrive
 at
 the
 northern
 edge
 
of
  the
  cove
  where
  a
  palm
  lazily
  leans
  over
  the
  gentle
  waves,
  almost
  horizontal,
  its
 
trunk
 at
 shoulder
 height.
 We
 have
 been
 here
 before,
 and
 I
 fall
 a
 little
 behind
 as
 you
 
reach
  the
  tree
  and
  position
  yourself,
  bent
  at
  the
  hips,
  hands
  on
  the
  trunk
  now
 
slightly
 above
 your
 head,
 legs
 slightly
 apart.
 I
 just
 stand
 there
 for
 a
 moment,
 taking
 it
 
all
 in:
 your
 back,
 your
 buttocks,
 your
 legs
 and
 that
 spot
 I
 so
 like,
 behind
 your
 knees.
 
The
 afternoon
 light
 is
 playing
 in
 your
 hair,
 and
 I
 would
 just
 stand
 there
 and
 stare
 if
 it
 
weren't
 for
 the
 insistent
 wiggle
 of
 your
 butt
 reminding
 me
 to
 my
 obligations.
 

I
 stroke
 myself
 into
 a
 full
 erection
 as
 I
 gently
 massage
 your
 buttocks
 and
 vagina
 with
 
the
 palm
 of
 my
 hands.
 You
 are
 wet
 and
 ready.
 I
 just
 love
 that
 little
 stifled
 yelp
 when
 I
 
finally
  penetrate
  you,
  as
  if
  it
  were
  a
  tremendous
  surprise
  every
  time...
  There's
 
something
  magical
  to
  cupping
  your
  breasts
  in
  my
  hands
  while
  I
  fuck
  you
  from
 
behind,
  taking
  your
  nipples
  between
  thumbs
  and
  forefingers,
  gently
  squeezing,
 
turning.
  I
  close
  my
  eyes
  and
  listen:
  the
  surf,
  birds,
  your
  heavy
  breathing.
  I
  caress
 
your
 belly,
 your
 back,
 with
 an
 occasional
 loving
 caress
 to
 your
 backside,
 and
 I
 ride
 
you
  a
  little
  harder,
  the
  back
  and
  forth
  in
  you
  more
  persistent,
  more
  abrupt.
  But
 
already
 I
 let
 out
 a
 sigh
 of
 surprise:
 I
 am
 on
 my
 way.
 I
 pull
 out,
 you
 turn
 and
 kneel.
 I
 
burry
 my
 fingers
 in
 your
 hair
 as
 you
 take
 me
 in
 your
 mouth
 just
 in
 time
 for
 me
 to
 
explode.
  Soon
  enough
  the
  orgasm
  is
  complete
  and
  each
  of
  its
  aftershocks
  is
 
pounding
 me
 deeper
 into
 the
 state
 of
 torpor
 that
 must
 follow.
 I
 crumple
 to
 the
 sand.
 
You
 are
 laughing
 and
 lay
 yourself
 next
 to
 me.
 I
 embrace
 your
 body
 with
 mine
 using
 
up
 the
 last
 bit
 of
 energy
 remaining,
 my
 body
 shaking
 uncontrollably
 in
 spasms.
 This
 
is
 bliss.
 

Yours
 always,
 
Michel”
 

She’d
 had
 of
 course
 the
 occasional
 fantasy
 about
 being
 with
 two
 men
 at
 once,
 but
 it
 
had
 been
 upon
 occurrence
 only
 a
 fleeting
 thought
 not
 met
 with
 much
 real
 interest,
 
but
  an
  object
  of
  curiosity.
  This
  was
  quite
  different.
  At
  first
  it
  was
  the
  presence
  of
 
Michel
  in
  the
  room
  as
  she
  made
  love,
  but
  over
  time
  it
  changed.
  Not
  that
  she
  was
 
taking
 on
 this
 very
 male
 trait
 of
 dissociating
 the
 act
 from
 the
 partner,
 but
 in
 fact
 she
 
was,
 through
 her
 melding
 of
 the
 two
 facets
 of
 her
 life,
 substituting
 one
 partner
 for
 
the
 other
 in
 the
 very
 act.
 The
 substitution
 was
 neither
 clear
 nor
 permanent
 nor
 even
 
equal
 in
 intensity
 over
 time,
 sometimes
 changing
 from
 one
 moment
 to
 the
 next,
 and
 
while
 it
 might
 be
 unjust
 to
 see
 this
 characterization
 as
 anything
 but
 a
 reflection
 of
 
the
 law
 of
 averages,
 when
 the
 sex
 was
 good
 it
 was
 often
 at
 the
 very
 least
 dedicated
 
to
 Michel.
 

‘tis
 a
 beautiful
 spring
 day
 in
 my
 neighborhood
 and
 I
 took
 the
 opportunity
 to
 grab
 my
 
camera
 and
 take
 a
 walk
 at
 lunchtime.
 It
 is
 the
 season
 of
 tulips
 and
 lilacs,
 flowering
 
trees
 of
 all
 varieties.
 Mother
 Nature
 is
 so
 generous
 after
 our
 long
 winter.
 Although
 
my
  camera
  can
  capture
  the
  visuals,
  it
  cannot
  convey
  the
  intoxicating
  scents
  which
 
waft
 through
 the
 air.
 I
 was
 inspired
 to
 remove
 my
 shoes
 and
 walk
 barefoot
 through
 
the
 expanse
 of
 our
 east
 vista.
 I
 thought
 about
 finding
 you
 waiting
 for
 me
 on
 one
 of
 
the
  many
  benches
  tucked
  away
  amongst
  the
  lush
  vegetation,
  waiting
  for
  me
  to
 
whisk
 you
 off
 to
 our
 rendezvous
 at
 the
 cabin
 in
 the
 woods,
 envisioning
 the
 delights
 
(both
 sexual
 and
 culinary)
 which
 I
 have
 planned
 for
 you
 and
 you
 alone.
 
 I’m
 happy
 to
 have
 been
 able
 to
 corroborate
 the
 picture
 you
 had
 in
 your
 head
 with
 
the
 photos
 I
 took
 of
 my
 Caribbean
 paradise.
 It
 would
 be
 nice
 to
 take
 such
 a
 vacation
 
with
 a
 lover
 and
 not
 just
 with
 a
 spouse.
 Hmmm…
 mojito
 in
 hand,
 watching
 me
 and
 
the
  waves.
  (Perhaps
  I
  should
  send
  you
  the
  photo
  of
  me
  napping
  in
  a
  hammock
  -‐
 
more
  fuel
  for
  your
  fire).
  You
  and
  I
  have,
  of
  course,
  ‘gone
  there’
  now.
  I
  especially
 
enjoyed
  the
  tale
  of
  the
  beachside
  location
  where
  I
  leaned
  into
  a
  palm
  tree
  and
 
impatiently
 wiggled
 my
 ass
 before
 you,
 beckoning
 your
 attention.
 These
 images
 are
 
very
  vivid
  still
  and
  provided
  most
  pleasant
  material
  for
  daydreaming
  during
  my
 
vacation.
 

But
 now
 some
 words
 to
 accompany
 the
 photo,
 a
 story
 which
 I
 hope
 will
 cause
 your
 
cock
 to
 rise
 to
 meet
 me.
 
The
 day
 has
 been
 spent
 dividing
 my
 time
 between
 the
 beach
 and
 the
 pool.
 I
 am
 most
 
pleasantly
 tired,
 the
 kind
 of
 tired
 that
 comes
 from
 being
 out
 in
 the
 sun
 and
 the
 surf
 
from
 morning
 to
 late
 afternoon.
 My
 skin
 is
 very
 warm
 to
 the
 touch
 and
 my
 hair
 has
 
been
 tousled
 by
 the
 wind.
 Returning
 to
 our
 room,
 I
 open
 the
 door
 to
 the
 balcony.
 I
 
shed
 my
 bathing
 suit
 and
 hang
 it
 on
 a
 chair
 to
 dry.
 How
 luxurious
 to
 feel
 the
 outside
 
air
 on
 my
 skin……
 somewhat
 lascivious.
 
 

Time
  now
  for
  a
  shower.
  I
  stand
  before
  the
  mirror,
  taking
  note
  of
  the
  areas
  of
  skin
 
where
 I
 missed
 applying
 sunscreen
 -‐
 a
 patch
 near
 the
 side
 of
 my
 left
 breast,
 another
 
deep
 in
 my
 cleavage.
 I
 step
 into
 the
 warm
 water
 and
 let
 it
 wash
 away
 the
 salt
 of
 the
 
day.
  I
  think
  of
  what
  it
  would
  be
  like
  to
  have
  you
  join
  me
  here.
  Would
  your
  cock
 
already
 be
 hard,
 or
 would
 it
 require
 a
 little
 assistance?
 My
 hand
 perhaps,
 sliding….
 
gently
 at
 first,
 and
 then
 with
 slightly
 more
 pressure,
 slippery
 with
 soap.
 
 

I
  rub
  my
  body
  with
  an
  oversized
  white
  towel
  and
  don
  my
  pale
  pink
  lace
  and
  silk
 
robe.
 I
 exit
 the
 bathroom
 and
 approach
 the
 king-‐sized
 bed
 where
 my
 husband
 lies,
 
naked
 and
 erect.
 He
 reaches
 over
 to
 untie
 the
 knot
 at
 my
 waist
 and
 to
 push
 the
 robe
 
from
  my
  shoulders.
  My
  breasts
  and
  torso
  glow
  in
  their
  whiteness
  as
  compared
  to
 
the
  color
  of
  the
  rest
  of
  my
  body.
  I
  position
  myself
  between
  his
  legs
  and
  lower
  my
 
head
  to
  take
  his
  phallus
  into
  my
  mouth.
  I
  lavish
  my
  best
  skills
  on
  pleasuring
  him,
 
imagining
 you
 in
 his
 place.
 How
 would
 you
 react?
 Would
 you
 lie
 still?
 Would
 sounds
 
of
  pleasure
  escape
  from
  your
  mouth?
  Would
  you
  tell
  me
  verbally
  or
  physically
 
which
 spots
 are
 your
 most
 sensitive?
 

But
 I
 do
 not
 wish
 him
 to
 climax
 before
 I
 have
 had
 my
 turn
 and
 so
 I
 cease
 my
 activity
 
and
 lie
 down
 next
 to
 him.
 He
 is
 anxious
 to
 please
 me,
 knowing
 well
 the
 pleasure
 that
 
will
  ensue
  for
  him.
  First
  it
  is
  the
  fingertips
  along
  my
  back,
  circling
  around
  my
 
breasts,
  as
  my
  nipples
  grow
  hard.
  Then
  his
  tongue
  takes
  over
  as
  the
  fingers
  work
 
their
  way
  lower
  and
  lower,
  teasing
  me.
  His
  fingers
  play
  with
  my
  public
  hair
  and
 
begin
  their
  slow
  journey
  towards
  my
  clit.
  There
  is
  a
  current
  of
  energy
  that
  runs
 
between
 my
 breasts
 and
 my
 cunt,
 ebbing
 and
 flowing
 with
 his
 movements.