The Pleasure of M (6 page)

I
 just
 realized
 that
 I
 have
 been
 thinking
 of
 your
 orgasm
 as
 something
 unrelated
 to
 
me,
 as
 though
 I
 have
 stimulated
 you
 to
 the
 peak
 but
 then
 just
 sit
 by
 and
 watch.
 But
 
what
  would
  it
  mean
  for
  me
  to
  hold
  you
  in
  my
  mouth
  or
  my
  vagina
  as
  you
  come?
 
Would
 you
 remain
 in
 my
 orifice
 during
 this
 entire
 process?
 

Yours,
 
Catherine”
 

It
 fascinated
 Catherine
 that
 she
 could
 be
 having
 the
 same
 effect
 on
 him
 as
 he
 on
 her.
 
He
  spoke
  of
  her
  initiating
  him,
  bringing
  him
  into
  a
  new
  world
  as
  a
  midwife
  and
 
disbelief
 would
 have
 nagged
 at
 her
 mind
 if
 it
 weren’t
 for
 the
 joy
 palpable
 in
 his
 voice
 
whenever
  they
  spoke.
  On
  the
  phone,
  she
  was
  brazen,
  describing
  how
  she
  would
 
please
 him
 if
 they
 were
 together,
 how
 she
 would
 slowly
 bring
 him
 to
 orgasm,
 and
 it
 
thrilled
 her
 to
 hear
 him
 speak
 of
 squirming,
 seated
 and
 not
 being
 able
 to
 stand
 up
 
for
  a
  few
  minutes
  until
  he
  was
  less
  rigid.
  How
  could
  it
  be
  that
  a
  couple
  of
  semi-‐
platonic
  flings
  in
  high-‐school,
  her
  marriage
  and
  one
  affair
  had
  given
  her
  greater
 
understanding
  of
  sex
  than
  Michel,
  the
  well-‐bred
  worldly
  and
  traveled
  French
 
aristocrat?
 How
 could
 she
 possibly
 have
 anything
 to
 give
 to
 this
 wonderful
 person
 
who
  had
  read
  so
  many
  books
  she
  would
  never
  read,
  seen
  so
  many
  places
  she
  had
 
never
  been
  to,
  steeped
  in
  the
  long
  history
  of
  his
  illustrious
  family?
  But
  he
  just
 
brushed
  such
  things
  away
  as
  mere
  trifles,
  weaving
  ever
  more
  powerful
  spells
  of
 
enchantment.
  How
  could
  I
  possibly
  imagine
  what
  it
  was
  like
  for
  you
  growing
  up?”
 
she
 once
 asked.
 “I’ll
 take
 you
 there”
 he
 answered,
 and
 he
 did.
 
“Sweet
 Catherine,
 

I
  walk
  into
  the
  room
  looking
  for
  you.
  You
  see
  me
  and
  stand,
  with
  perhaps
  some
 
apprehension
 on
 your
 face.
 Maybe
 it
 is
 because
 you
 do
 not
 know
 this
 place.
 Maybe
 it
 
is
 because
 of
 the
 look
 on
 my
 face.
 I
 don't
 really
 care.
 There
 is
 weariness
 in
 my
 bones
 
and
 I
 need
 comfort.
 I
 take
 your
 arm
 and
 pull
 you
 toward
 the
 long
 oak
 table.
 I
 bend
 
you
 over
 the
 table,
 pull
 up
 your
 skirt
 and
 pull
 down
 your
 panties,
 knocking
 off
 your
 
shoes.
 I
 unzip
 and
 pull
 out
 my
 Phallus.
 Not
 hard
 enough
 yet,
 but
 getting
 there.
 I
 grab
 
a
 hand
 and
 pin
 it
 in
 your
 back,
 pushing
 you
 down
 firmly
 onto
 the
 table
 and
 kick
 your
 
feet
 apart
 more.
 My
 phallus
 is
 ready,
 and
 I
 jab
 it
 in.
 I
 grab
 your
 other
 hand
 and
 pin
 it
 
with
 the
 other,
 both
 your
 wrists
 in
 my
 firm
 grip,
 pressing
 you
 onto
 the
 table,
 and
 I
 
am
 in
 you.
 I
 let
 go
 of
 your
 hands
 to
 grab
 your
 shoulder
 and
 pull
 you
 upright.
 I
 grab
 
your
 breasts
 and
 squeeze
 them
 tightly.
 And
 I
 am
 in
 you.
 I
 feel
 the
 quickening
 but
 I
 
hold
 it
 back.
 I
 drop
 your
 breasts
 and
 push
 you
 back
 down
 onto
 the
 table.
 Your
 torso
 
moves
  back
  and
  forth
  on
  the
  dark
  wood
  as
  I
  pound
  it
  in,
  pound
  it
  in.
  Finally
  the
 
moment
 is
 coming.
 I
 pull
 out
 of
 you,
 grab
 you
 and
 pull
 you
 back
 while
 pushing
 you
 
down
  on
  your
  knees.
  I
  put
  my
  phallus
  in
  your
  mouth
  and
  push
  it
  in
  deep
  and
 
explode,
  bending
  over,
  pulling
  you
  into
  me.
  My
  grunts
  turn
  into
  howls
  as
  I
  empty
 
myself.
  The
  fire
  moves
  from
  my
  loin
  to
  my
  veins,
  and
  I
  let
  it
  consume
  my
  passion
 
and
  my
  rage.
  I
  push
  you
  away
  and
  slam
  my
  fists
  on
  the
  table.
  With
  a
  final
  roar,
  I
 
contract
 every
 muscle
 in
 my
 body
 and
 reassert
 control.
 I
 stand
 tall
 and
 refasten
 my
 
pants.
 Out
 of
 the
 window,
 I
 catch
 the
 last
 embers
 of
 the
 sun
 on
 my
 domain.
 This
 is
 
my
 mother's
 second
 house
 and
 will
 one
 day
 come
 to
 me,
 her
 second
 son.
 This
 table
 
is
 nearly
 two
 hundred
 years
 old,
 almost
 as
 old
 as
 the
 house,
 an
 old
 farm.
 
 My
 family
 
has
  owned
  land
  in
  these
  parts
  for
  over
  five
  hundred
  years.
  Before
  that,
  they
  were
 
serfs
 belonging
 to
 the
 count
 and
 lord
 of
 these
 parts.
 Eight
 miles
 from
 here,
 there
 is
 a
 
cemetery
 where
 lay
 twelve
 generations
 of
 my
 ancestry.
 I
 help
 you
 to
 your
 feet
 and
 
look
 deep
 into
 your
 eyes.
 I
 brush
 a
 finger
 against
 your
 lips
 and
 smile.
 This
 place
 is
 
not
  much
  further
  from
  your
  home
  than
  is
  Los
  Angeles.
  I
  have
  not
  been
  here
 
physically
 for
 18
 years,
 though
 many
 times
 in
 dream,
 and
 I
 do
 not
 expect
 that
 I
 will
 
be
 able
 to
 return
 for
 another
 ten
 years.
 Until
 then,
 nothing
 here
 will
 change
 much,
 
nothing
 will
 move...
 It
 is
 an
 important
 place
 for
 me,
 which
 is
 why
 I
 needed
 to
 'take'
 
you
 there.
 We
 will
 return
 many
 times,
 if
 that
 is
 agreeable
 to
 you.
 There
 is
 a
 meadow,
 
a
 stream,
 a
 forest...
 It
 is
 a
 lush,
 verdant
 place
 of
 live
 oaks,
 wheat
 fields
 and
 a
 beautiful
 
rose
 garden.
 My
 adoration
 you
 have
 earned
 many
 times
 over.
 

Her
 response
 marked
 a
 definite
 turning
 point
 in
 their
 affair.
 
“Dearest
 Michel,
 

You
  have
  taken
  my
  breath
  away.
  Perhaps
  the
  time
  was
  right
  for
  you
  to
  assert
 
yourself
 and
 take
 me
 in
 your
 domain.
 All
 doubts
 have
 flown
 from
 my
 mind
 and
 I
 can
 
think
 only
 of
 my
 desire
 to
 please
 you.
 I
 want
 you
 very,
 very
 badly.
 

We
 are
 in
 my
 bedroom.
 You
 are
 naked
 but
 I
 am
 fully
 clothed.
 Your
 hands
 reach
 up
 
under
  my
  blouse
  and
  your
  fingers
  trace
  the
  outline
  of
  my
  bra.
  Your
  fingers
  travel
 
 
onward
  and
  slip
  inside
  my
  slacks.
  With
  a
  shock,
  you
  realize
  that
  I
  am
  wearing
  no
 
panties.
 You
 unzip
 my
 pants
 and
 let
 them
 fall
 to
 the
 floor.
 Your
 growing
 cock
 fits
 so
 
nicely
 between
 my
 legs.
 You
 unbutton
 my
 blouse.
 I
 take
 your
 hand
 and
 indicate
 that
 
you
 are
 to
 sit
 on
 the
 edge
 of
 the
 bed.
 I
 kneel
 before
 you,
 clothed
 now
 only
 in
 my
 bra.
 
You
 lean
 back
 on
 your
 hands
 and
 your
 beautiful
 cock
 rises
 to
 meet
 my
 lips.
 My
 sex
 is
 
pulsating
 with
 sensation;
 I
 am
 so
 aroused
 by
 this
 vision
 of
 myself
 in
 my
 bra
 with
 my
 

bottom
 exposed.
 My
 tongue
 explores
 every
 inch
 of
 your
 erect
 phallus
 as
 you
 watch
 
with
 awe.
 Up
 and
 down
 its
 full
 length,
 I
 lavish
 every
 ounce
 of
 my
 attention
 on
 giving
 
you
 magnificent
 pleasure.
 I
 stop
 periodically
 to
 look
 into
 your
 eyes
 and
 to
 give
 you
 a
 
chance
  to
  catch
  your
  breath.
  You
  let
  me
  be
  the
  guide,
  until
  finally
  I
  can
  sense
  that
 
you
 are
 at
 the
 point
 of
 no
 return.
 

Your
  hands
  are
  on
  my
  head
  in
  blessing
  as
  every
  nerve
  in
  your
  body
  seems
  to
 
explode.
  And
  I
  remain
  there,
  head
  bowed,
  until
  you
  reach
  to
  bring
  me
  into
  your
 
embrace.
 

I
 am
 yours,
 Michel.
 I
 will
 not
 doubt
 you
 any
 longer.
 
Catherine”
 

While
 neither
 of
 them
 would
 cease
 to
 marvel
 at
 their
 ability
 to
 write
 as
 they
 did
 to
 
each
  other,
  and
  certainly
  some
  of
  their
  previous
  messages
  had
  been
  even
  more
 
sexually
 explicit,
 they
 did
 cease
 to
 wonder
 if
 it
 was
 acceptable
 to
 write
 that
 way
 of
 
such
  things,
  or
  whether
  the
  recipient
  would
  be
  shocked
  or
  turned
  off
  by
  anything
 
they
  had
  to
  say.
  It
  was
  a
  degree
  of
  freedom
  added
  to
  the
  creative
  matrix
  of
  their
 
affair,
  and
  indeed
  each
  message
  would
  deepen
  the
  imprint
  of
  their
  soul
  that
  each
 
would
 leave
 on
 the
 other.
 Each
 day
 found
 them
 renewed,
 a
 blank
 page
 ready
 for
 the
 
other
  to
  write
  on
  with
  the
  ink
  of
  their
  life,
  of
  their
  bond,
  of
  their
  shared
  fantasy.
 
Distance
 and
 time
 shaped
 their
 relationship
 but
 not
 as
 an
 obstacle,
 instead
 instilling
 
into
 it
 a
 sense
 of
 rhythm,
 as
 if
 infused
 with
 the
 daily
 pulse
 of
 their
 common
 heart.
 Of
 
course
 
there
 
was
 
the
 
occasional
 
empty
 
inbox,
 
rough
 
reminders
 
of
 
the
 
precariousness
  of
  the
  better
  things
  in
  life,
  the
  sharp
  pang
  of
  pain
  of
  a
  heart
  that
 
skips
  a
  beat,
  the
  unforgiving
  lingering
  fear
  that
  one
  might
  wake
  up…
  They
  trusted
 
each
  other
  fully
  but
  also
  understood
  that
  life
  has
  its
  dictates
  and
  that
  their
 
relationship
 by
 its
 very
 nature
 could
 be
 extinguished
 in
 a
 moment
 because
 of
 these.
 
Or
  simply
  be
  rudely
  interrupted,
  such
  as
  the
  time
  when
  she
  went
  on
  a
  ten
  day
 
vacation
  with
  her
  husband
  out
  of
  reach
  of
  the
  magical
  electronic
  ink
  that
  he
 
transported
 her
 with.
 He
 wrote
 to
 her
 just
 before
 she
 left
 so
 that
 he
 could
 be
 with
 
her
 while
 she
 was
 gone.