Authors: Michel Farnac
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.