Authors: Michel Farnac
“Dearest
Catherine
allow
me
to
continue
satisfying
my
obligations
with
the
following
piece.
We
start
out
sitting
at
a
small
table,
sipping
a
little
champagne
perhaps,
I
clothed,
you
not.
I’ve
laid
on
the
table
the
soon-‐to-‐be
familiar
purple
velvet
sleeve
with
the
black
satin
blindfold
in
it.
I’m
in
no
rush
for
you
to
put
it
on
as
we
chat,
but
eventually
you
are
ready.
The
game
is
one
of
contrast
and
pleasure.
Two
simple
objects…
…ten
short
contacts
with
your
skin,
just
strategically
placed.
The
point
of
the
blindfold
is
to
increase
the
intensity
of
the
sensations
by
making
them
unpredictable.
The
goal
is
to
see
how
still
you
stay
throughout
the
exercise...
…
and
therefore
the
challenge
is
to
see
how
well
I
read
you.
That
you
do
not
know
what
the
two
objects
are
might
have
allowed
us
a
guessing
game
had
I
not
chosen
the
obvious.
The
first
contact
is
a
fleeting
and
soft
caress
to
your
right
shoulder
blade,
from
top
to
bottom,
just
a
few
inches.
For
a
moment
you
think
of
fabric
perhaps
but
the
second
contact
makes
you
realize
it
can’t
be,
a
gentle
rolling
of
something
definitely
very
soft
down
your
inner
left
thigh,
but
it
is
so
close
to
tickling
you
that
staying
still
takes
away
the
fleeting
sensation.
Third
contact.
A
yelp
for
sure,
but
do
you
move?
In
the
small
of
your
back,
that
sacred
spot,
the
piercing
sensation
of
something
very…
cold!
And
the
drop
of
water
that
rolls
down
the
middle
to
nest
itself
at
the
top
of
the
opening…
a
tell-‐tale
sign,
really.
Yes,
an
ice
cube.
Fourth
contact,
the
ice
again,
this
time
on
your
left
nipple,
short
still.
Fifth
contact,
the
right
nipple,
but
this
time,
the
ice
cube
circles
it
several
times,
leaving
it
gleaming
in
a
thin
sheet
of
ice
water..
Sixth
contact,
something
cups
and
presses
against
your
left
nipple,
still
numb
from
the
cold,
moving
in
a
very
soft
circular
motion.
I
bring
it
closer
to
your
nose
and
the
unmistakable
aroma
of
a
rose
wafts
to
your
nostrils.
Seventh
contact,
the
ice
cube
at
the
base
of
your
neck,
briefly,
eighth
contact,
the
rose
against
your
forehead,
back
and
forth,
slowly.
Yours,
Michel”
He
liked
to
turn
her
compliments
about
his
prose
into
a
discussion
of
the
references
that
so
easily
drifted
into
it.
Movies,
books,
music,
stories
and
legends
from
around
the
world
inspired
them
both
and
sometimes
it
was
she
who
surprised
him
with
something
he
did
not
know.
“Dearest
Catherine:
Your
short
day
and
the
time
difference
will
not
allow
me
to
do
justice
to
the
medium,
but
I
wanted
to
confirm
your
suspicion
about
the
Mickey
Rourke
flick.
I
am
off
to
the
Wednesday
edition
of
the
local
farmer's
market:
all
'organic',
where
the
best
chefs
come
to
stock
up.
I
haven't
been
there
in
ages
(not
usually
available
on
Wednesday
mornings...).
If
you
write
back
(I
am
hopeful,
of
course),
do
forgive
me
if
you
do
not
see
my
reply
until
your
return
from
the
holiday
break.
Yours,
Michel”
“Dearest
Michel,
That
sounds
like
a
wonderful
way
to
spend
your
morning.
It
makes
me
think
of
Isabel
Allende's
book
'Aphrodite'
which
is
filled
with
stories
about
the
love
of
food
and
the
food
of
love.
I
would
highly
recommend
it
if
you
have
not
already
read
it.
As
a
matter
of
fact,
I
think
I
might
have
to
delve
into
it
again
myself.
Yours,
Catherine”
And
so
as
he
read
Allende,
she
watched
9½
weeks.
This
of
course
led
to
rather
feverish
sex
with
her
husband,
as
she
had
had
to
watch
the
movie
in
his
company,
and
it
was
after
this
that
she
started
to
feel
a
subtle
shift
which
at
first
only
puzzled
her
mildly.
During
her
first
affair
already
there
had
been
a
marked
change
in
her
marital
sex
life,
well,
a
dramatic
increase
mainly.
But
this
had
not
been
an
unqualified
source
of
pleasure
mainly
because
it
was
in
good
part
inspired
by
a
thorough
misunderstanding
of
her
husband’s
motivations
and
reactions
to
her
sudden
advances
after
years
of
neglect.
This
time,
however,
there
was
not
only
a
renewed
increase
in
the
frequency
of
marital
sex,
but
also
an
undeniable
change
in
the
quality.
She
was
finding
out
that
there
can
be
many
distinct
layers
of
inhibition
carefully
wrapped
around
one’s
quest
for
pleasure
in
sex,
and
this
of
course
by
discovering
that
she
had
shed
yet
another:
she
was
now
letting
free
reign
to
her
curiosity
and
fascination
with
her
husband’s
body.
Or,
rather,
a
man’s
body.
She
was
not
in
any
way
shedding
the
natural
need
for
the
greatest
intimacy
with
a
sexual
partner
as
a
prerequisite
for
the
act,
but
absorbing
the
fact
that
there
were
two
men
in
her
life.
Michel
often
took
care
to
distinguish
between
himself
and
his
gender
as
a
whole,
but
because
of
their
very
tenure,
his
descriptions
of
male
pleasure
carried
a
universal
tone
to
them
which
she
inevitably
projected
onto
her
husband.
Erection
was
a
case
in
point.
Since
her
husband
rarely
if
ever
initiated
things,
she
had
the
luxury
of
planning
her
sexual
encounters
with
him
and
varied
the
approach
so
as
to
observe
his
erection
under
different
conditions.
She
came
to
him
after
his
shower,
after
dinner,
woke
him
in
the
middle
of
the
night,
and
she
unashamedly
observed
him
and
his
erections
to
his
obviously
great
delight.
She
wanted
to
master
the
subtleties
of
endowing
the
final
inch,
even
if
only
on
her
circumcised
husband;
she
wanted
to
decide
if
she
would
do
it
or
have
her
husband
do
it
for
himself,
and
other
such
variations.
Much
of
her
experimentation
amounted
to
delineating
what
was
caused
by
the
man
in
him
and
where
the
difference
between
he
and
Michel
laid.
And
as
things
progressed,
she
was
more
and
more
interested
in
the
pleasure
that
she
was
giving
him
rather
than
in
giving
him
pleasure,
just
as
she
grew
more
interested
in
the
pleasures
that
he
did
or
did
not
give
her
rather
than
in
him
giving
her
pleasure.
To
end
our
weekend,
my
husband
and
I
went
out
for
Sunday
breakfast
and
a
walk
along
the
canal.
We
decided
that
there
was
still
time
to
get
home
for
a
little
‘morning
delight’
before
our
daughter
returned
from
her
part-‐time
job.
The
sun
floods
our
bedroom.
It
is
so
easy
to
shed
my
clothing
in
this
warm
weather.
(Just
think
of
what
I
might
be
doing
if
I
lived
in
California!)
My
tanned
limbs
contrast
nicely
with
the
pale
smoothness
of
my
breasts,
belly
and
buttocks.
We
stand
naked
before
the
mirror
and
I
turn
my
head
to
gaze
upon
the
sight
of
my
long,
lean
body
pressed
up
against
him.
I
kneel
at
his
feet
and
begin
to
slowly
lick
his
cock.
It
needs
little
encouragement.
After
a
time
I
lead
him
to
the
bed.
His
mouth
tends
to
my
breasts
while
his
fingers
begin
to
stroke
my
opening.
I
gently
push
my
husband,
who
slides
down
the
bed
to
bury
his
face
in
my
cunt.
I
believe
I
have
already
told
you
how
much
I
enjoy
this
particular
action.
And
here
is
where
you
come
into
the
story.
You
are
watching
from
a
nearby
chair
-‐
an
avid
student,
eager
to
learn
all
you
can
about
how
to
pleasure
me.
My
gaze
moves
from
him
to
you
and
back
again,
seeing
myself
as
you
are
seeing
me,
my
legs
spread
wide,
my
hands
across
my
chest,
fingers
caressing
my
nipples.
I
know
that
your
cock
is
hard
and
throbbing,
as
is
his.
I
think
about
how
you
will
take
me
when
it
is
your
turn
and
I
can
hold
back
no
longer.
Waves
of
pleasure
swamp
me
as
I
surrender
to
the
orgasm.