Authors: Michel Farnac
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.