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Mira has just finished lathering herself up with her fluffy lavender sponge and favorite milk soap when her cell phone rings.
She quickly shuts off the water and reaches for her little metal butler where it is lying on top of her towel just within reach of her dripping hand. It crosses her mind that he told her to be ready, yet she seems to have done everything in her power not to be prepared for anything today--a subconscious form of resistance at odds with her excitement. She has only seen this series of numbers once before, but it is already branded into her heart. 'Hello?' she answers as calmly as possible considering her drenched state, both physically and emotionally, for no man has ever inspired such a flood of feelings in her before.
"Did you receive the package?' he asks quietly.
She suffers a thrill of secrecy and danger. 'Yes, I did,' she replies, shivering for more reasons than one.
"I'll teach you the correct response later, Mira, but since you're a virgin to B&D I'm taking it very slowly with you. I noticed the secluded arbor out in your garden. At exactly eight o'clock this evening if you happen to be wearing any clothes you'll take them all off, everything, including your shoes, and you will wait for me there naked, wearing only the contents of the package. You know what to do with it. You will wait for me lying on your back with your arms over your head and your legs spread. You may bring a towel to lie on if you prefer.'
"You want me to lie naked out in my garden blindfolded?' The incredulous question escapes her before she can stop it.
"I won't repeat myself. If you're not there waiting for me exactly as I described, then I'll assumeyou've changed your mind about us.'
"I'll be there.'
"Then I'll see you then.'
He leaves her to wonder whether or not a pun was intended as the display on her phone once again announces Call Ended.
She scarcely notices the rest of her long-awaited shower. Her property is blessedly private--three full acres of big old trees, flowering bushes and vines, almost all of which are in bloom now and providing a natural protection from neighbor's prying eyes. Nevertheless, she does have neighbors, and it makes her anxious to imagine lying naked outside vulnerably blind. Only the fact that her little arbor is wonderfully private--a horseshoe of bushes over six-feet tall, two of them Rose bushes--assuages her nervousness. Chances are no one will see her, but that of course means there is also the chance someone might, yet because she is probably not in any real danger in the privacy of her yard, how vulnerable she will feel serves to excite her more than frighten her.
"Don't settle for the one you can live with, wait for the one you can't live without."
E ight o'clock arrives and brings with it those cool, lovely, and sadly evanescent moments just after the sun dips below the horizon when the beauty of the dying day is both softened and intensified--a classic cross-over moment. Mira has a feeling there will be many such moments with Phillip, and her anticipation is so intense it has the power to slow time down to a miserable crawl. The evening seems endless as one glass of Chardonnay flows into another. She is sitting with her legs curled up beneath her on the couch wearing her violet robe and gazing at the violet roses left by the man she has agreed to meet naked and blindfolded out in her garden. Part of her feels like a little girl playing a really exciting game with the new boy next door, who at last seems a fit match for her imaginative energies.
"Eat your heart out, Anna,' she murmurs, smugly taking another sip of wine. Her parents are still in touch with Anna's parents, which is why she knows that her ex best friend from long ago married a stock broker and is getting ready to pop her third baby, in Mira's opinion a nightmare scenario if there ever was one. Suddenly she feels sorry for women whose circumstances prohibit them from doing such simple sensual things as lying naked out in a garden waiting for their lover. The blindfold seems symbolically appropriate since she has not been able to truly see anything lately except her thoughts of Phillip.
When the clock on her cable box reads seven-fifty-four, Mira slips out of her robe, picks up a burgundy towel with the red satin blindfold resting ready on top of it, and heads outside wearing nothing but the black hair waving gently down her back.
Being naked out in her yard feels utterly natural to her; she doesn't experience any of the awkward sense of exposure she feared. On the contrary, she feels like a special guest, the center of attention in a wild yet sophisticated celebration serving the heady cocktail of flowers in bloom, each color intoxicatingly lovely in its own way. And even though most of the lively guests are invisible, her naked flesh clearly senses their presence in the prickly grass, in the dark earth, and in the sap-filled barks of old trees. She is surrounded by the cool, shadowy peace of evening ... and of life speaking to her through a silence punctuated by the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze...
Dusk, when the sun has set but night has not yet fallen, the ultimate crossover moments when the sky is an indescribable color--a deep, haunting blue that can never be mixed on an artist's palette occasionally deepened by an erratic black streak. The bats are out. She sometimes enjoys sipping her Chardonnay out on the porch watching them, twilight's haunting window between night and day the only time they're visible to the human eye ... evoking legends of vampires rising from their coffins the instant the sun sets, vulnerable for a few moments before they blend into the darkness to begin wreaking their deadly sensuality...
The red and white roses that will adorn her bower have not yet bloomed, so it is in a deep-green well of darkening foliage that Mira spreads out her towel and kneels naked in the center of it. She has never tied a blindfold over her own eyes before, and she takes great care to get it just right so there aren't any cracks she can cheat and see through. Beneath the slick cloth absolute darkness reigns as she secures it in a firm knot at the back of her head, unable to avoid tangling a few of her hairs in it. Then she lies on her back, bends her arms over her head, and spreads her legs just as he instructed her to do.
For the first minute or so she wonders how long she will have to wait for him like this, but gradually her mind relaxes along with her body, and like the loud, clattering engine of a train slowing down at a major crossroads she stops thinking to just listen. It's true that not being able to see the world magnifies the sounds around her. The soft rustling of leaves seems to grow louder and louder until it becomes a veritable symphony rising in tempo the more she focuses on it. She won't be able to hear Phillip's approach on the soft carpet of grass so well-tended by Ra. Will she be able to sense him? She is glad he gave her permission to spread a towel between her naked skin and all the creepy-crawly creatures living in the dirt, because though she doesn't mind them every now and then accidentally landing on her arms and legs, but her pussy is another matter altogether, a sacred shrine off limits to all biological riffraff. And right now her fleshly temple doors are wide open waiting for the man her soul has already dared to identify as the exciting high priest she has been waiting for since she knew how to daydream.
The wind lightly caressing her skin makes her think of the words, 'You know not whence it comes or whence it goes' a metaphor for the spirit as an invisible force that nevertheless has the power to touch us ... but not like that ... there is something warm and decidedly substantial moving slowly up her legs...
"Phillip?' she whispers, but does not really need to hear him reply. Her body knows those are a man's hands caressing the infinitely sensitive flesh of her inner thighs even as she senses the deepening of the air above her. Suddenly, she longs to rip off the blindfold to see him. Desperate to look at him, to fill all her senses with him, she arches her back beneath the delicious torture of only being able to experience his ghostly touch. She can't even be sure it truly is him. The wild thought crosses her mind that Ramon forgot one of his gardening tools, and that those are actually his hands moving ever so lightly up towards her eagerly waiting breasts, but she immediately dismisses the notion. She doesn't need to see to know that is not her gardener kneeling between her legs; she recognizes the almost palpable magnetic current flowing between Phillip's skin and hers as his fingertips just barely brush her skin. She sighs with pleasure as a cool, warm, firm and moist sensation engulfs one of her nipples, instantly hardening it into a pebble sending ripples of delight into the depths of her sex.
It doesn't take long for a sublime anarchy to reign in her other senses freed from the tyranny of sight. He works on both her nipples with a skill that has her nerve-ends smoldering with a desire that keeps intensifying the wetter her pussy gets. It is too much for her, she has to touch him, she has to feel him, her arms refuse to remain resting passively over her head...
He grasps both her wrists with a swift strength that makes her aware of how delicate her bones are. She moans, knowing she has done wrong, and senses him move away from her as he stretches her arms up over her head again. Tears of frustration and regret that she has failed to submit gracefully to him threaten to dampen the blindfold. She has to bite her lip to keep them in check. The loving way his fingertips caress her open palms soothes and forgives her. Then she senses another welcome disturbance of the air around her and knows he is moving again. Her suspicions are confirmed when she distinctly feels his presence once more concentrated between her legs. The tongue she fantasized about that morning as she touched herself becomes real, and miraculously even more skilled and sensitive to her slightest reaction than she could ever have dared hope.
Small, whimpering sounds of disbelief and gratitude well up from within her, released into the cool evening as he goes down on her with a precision that is almost surgical in its power to cut through her defenses, yet there is nothing cold and passionless about the way he eats her. Her pussy is juicing helplessly, gushing like another small organic fountain added to the three already gracing her garden. The tip of his tongue circling endlessly makes her clitoris feel like a priestess coaxed all the way out of her fleshly temple for the first time by the quality of a devotion at last worthy of her sensitive spirit. In the past so many men simply attacked her clit with all the finesse of farmers trampling on a seed expecting pleasure to just naturally bloom between her thighs as a result; sucking on her body's mysterious seed as though it was a simple sugar-based candy, making it defensively hard and producing the opposite effect of melting her in their mouth. Some of her lovers were a bit more circumspect, but there was not enough passion in the almost mathematical application of licks, sucks, laps and nips they patiently subjected her to, seeking her sexual response like the answer to an almost impossibly complex equation.
As she hoped and suspected would be the case, being orally pleasured by a man feels stunningly different with Phillip. The muscle of his tongue is so firm and thick that when it works its way up between the folds of her labia, opening her up as he savors the nectar of her arousal, her back arches with longing; with the blind need to be penetrated by his cock or his tongue or his fingers, she doesn't care which, she just has to feel a part of him inside her before she completely loses her mind wanting him. Yet she doesn't dare speak; she doesn't dare beg him to fuck her. Already she has learned enough to suspect pleading with him will only delay her fulfillment, so she submissively endures the divine torment of his features burying themselves in her sex. He uses his whole face to arouse her, not just his tongue, working her pussy up into a drenched frenzy that will suck him down to the very hilt of her incarnation when he finally penetrates her.
Her nipples are so hard that when he reaches up and begins firmly stroking them between this thumb and forefinger a climax blooms between her thighs like a hot house flower, with time-lapse explosiveness, her clit abruptly dissolving between his lips like a drop of dew reflecting all the heat of the sun. Her brain is not prepared for the intensity of the orgasm that takes root in her pelvis and blossoms with devastating beauty in all her nerve-ends and she hears herself cry out as if in pain. The pleasure is so powerful she needed to prepare herself for it, but it's too late as she comes in waves that just keep deepening and deepening rather than ebbing. She has never climaxed like this before without touching herself, with only a man's face buried between her thighs. Her most vital muscles contracting, it takes all the willpower she possesses not to reach down and grab his head, whether to push it away or drive his face deeper into her pussy she cannot say.
"Very good, Mira.' He finally lets her hear his voice.
"Oh, God, Phillip, I've never--'
"Did I give you permission to speak?'
"I'm sorry,' she whispers, and then bites her lip fearing she has further compounded her transgression by speaking again. It feels as much reward as punishment when he abruptly turns her over onto her stomach and spanks her. She has been spanked before, but never like this, and she gasps beneath the impact of a sensation that prepares her for the even more welcome experience of his erection thrusting into her pussy from behind. The soft cotton beneath her is cushioned by lush grass but it does not give way like a bed. The earth beneath her feels rock-solid as he pounds his cock into her slick hole at an angle that leaves nothing to her imagination, his balls slapping her labia as his head violently kisses her cervix. She rests her cheek on the towel and clutches it to brace herself even as the rest of her body rests limp as a beached mermaid beneath his plunging dives. There is nothing passive about her on the inside, however; her pussy is actively, greedily grasping his erection, pulsing open and closed around him like a hungry anemone feasting on his totally fulfilling dimensions. He is so hard she suspects his relentless penetrations would almost hurt if her sex wasn't so wet and relaxed from the orgasm he gave her with his mouth, and when he spreads his body on top of hers it feels like the full, wondrous weight of the universe falling on her as his warm breath caresses her cheek, 'Oh, Mira!'
She moans in response, engrossed in the profound thrill of caressing and squeezing his cock with the most special muscles she possesses. This time he isn't wearing a condom and she is very glad of that, because not being able to see him as well as not truly feeling him inside her would have been unbearable. In her mind's eye she pictures his erection stabbing her and visualizes the walls of her innermost flesh wrapping around it, squeezing his shaft from the base to the head in a continuous rippling motion even as the rest of her flesh remains utterly submissive beneath him. She relishes every second of his beating as he packs the full, rending length of his penis into her pussy with every stroke. She is going to make him come inside her. She will make it impossible for him to pull out of her at the last minute. She is determined to have the impenetrable darkness behind her eyelids illuminated by the exploding stars of his cum surging into her innermost space in an erotic Milky Way. She longs to beg him to come inside her, but he hasn't given her permission to speak. So she begs him silently, with the part of her made especially to coax everything she desires from a man. For years she has been exercising her vaginal muscles in the hope of one day using this sensual skill on her soul-mate, and his breathless groans speak to the effectiveness of her self-training, as does the way his hard-on begins pulsing inside her, further intensifying the pleasure bonding them, until she has to break her silence by crying out as his cock reaches critical mass and he ejaculates deep between her thighs.
Afterwards, they lie still for a few moments. She can tell he is still fully dressed and that he isn't wearing black leather. His shirt is soft against her skin, and before fucking her he pushed his pants down far enough for her to be able to feel his naked hips and scrotum as well as his condom-free dick. She is almost sorry when he lifts his weight off her, and sudden panic prompts her to raise herself up onto her elbows. She is afraid he will walk silently away again while she isn't looking, once again disappearing from her life for an intolerably long time. This nightmare scenario almost makes her speak, but she retrains herself with a monumental effort of will.
"Thank you, Mira,' he says from somewhere above her. 'You may sit up now, which means you may kneel.... no, not like that. We are in a temple of sorts, but it's not a Catholic church, so spread your legs more ... that's good. Now sit back on your heels and rest the backs of both your hands on your knees ... very nice ... keep your head lowered ... beautiful.'
She is grateful for his firm commands, which offer a civilized contrast to how uncontrollably wet her pussy is. Not being able to see her juices mingled with his sperm trickling down the insides of her thighs causes it to assume embarrassing, almost geographical dimensions in her mind ... the tributaries of a river flowing from a temple as old as life ... Holding herself perfectly still, she sighs with contentment that her quest for a truly virile man is over at last.
"Did you enjoy that?' he asks, his voice sounding a little closer now and coming from somewhere to her left. 'You have permission to speak.'
"Yes,' she confesses softly.
"The correct response is "Yes, Master".'
Her back stiffens.
"I told you to keep your head down.'
She obeys him tensely, her lips sealed like a tomb behind which all her self-respect is buried as she remains stubbornly silent for a few seconds. 'I refuse to call you what countless other women call you,' she informs him tightly; proudly.
"The women I work with address me as Master Phillip. Did I ask you to call me Master Phillip?'
The beautiful hope and happiness that spark in her heart is fanned by her whispered submission, 'No, Master.'
"I want you to understand, Mira, that only you have the right to call me Master.'
"I hope so...'
"Which means I already care about you, and want you, more than any other woman I've ever met. It means I want you to be my real, one-and-only slave.'
Her joy at his words is compounded by the sensation of him untying her blindfold. She holds her breath, scarcely able to believe she is about to see him again after so long, not to mention after how blindly intimate they just were together. The satiny blackness slips away and is replaced by a slightly less absolute darkness. Night has fallen. All she can see of him at first is his white shirt, lovely and luminous as moonlight. His features are distinguishable only as infinitely intriguing shadows when he kisses her, threading his fingers through her hair and tilting her head back to part her lips so he can tongue her deeply, reminding her of how selfishly his cock used her throat.
"Are you cold?' he asks, crouching before her.
"Not at all ... I mean, no Master.'
His smile is a subtle light in the darkness. 'You may rise now,' he says, straightening up and offering her his hand so she can brace herself on it as she obeys him. 'Shall we adjourn to your doll's house?'
"Yes, Master,' she replies happily, and bends over to pick up her towel.
"No, leave it there,' he commands. 'Lots of intense, positive energy was just absorbed by that fabric. I want you to leave it there for at least twenty-four hours to remind you of this special night, Mira.'
"Yes, Master,' she agrees, but makes no move to walk towards her house, afraid he will vanish if she doesn't keep her vision fixed directly on him.
"Come on,' he says gently, and once again his smile hits her retinas as a subtle glow in the darkness. He takes her hand and leads the way to her kitchen door. Somewhere along the way Stormy and Sekhmet join them, doing everything in their power to trip them up as they insist on purring passionately around their ankles.
"I don't know what it is about you, Phillip, but Sekhmet has never reacted to another human being like this before. She adores you!'
"She has profoundly good taste, just like her mistress.'
"Yes, we're both very particular.'
"And I'm grateful for that. You could very well be married and pregnant with your second baby by now.'
He opens the door, intuitively aware she didn't lock it, or rather he commanded her to lie out in her garden wearing nothing but a blindfold so he knew there was no place for her to keep a key.
The doll's house is dark except for a lamp in the living room illuminating the bouquet of violet roses. She automatically switches on the overhead light in the kitchen.
Pressing his body up against hers, he promptly flicks the switch back down. 'Do you have any candles?' he asks in a voice soft enough to be her own imagination, except that his presence is more real than anything she has ever experienced; it makes her heartbeats feel like hammer blows erecting the glorious edifice of their future together in the form of a temple dedicated to love and sex and ancient erotic rituals without end...
"Of course I have candles,' she retorts breathlessly. 'As a matter-of-fact, there are two candles on the fireplace mantle in the living room.'
She opens the small drawer beside which they're standing and extracts one of her many little boxes of wooden matches.
"Light the candles for us, Mira,' he caresses her hair as he speaks, 'then go find the highest pair of heels you own. Put them on, and walk slowly back into the living room.'
She does not need to clearly see his eyes in the dim light to be hopelessly caught up in the gravity of his regard; nevertheless, the correct reply to his command sticks in her throat, battling decades of feminist indoctrination. 'Yes, Master,' she whispers at last.
He kisses her forehead as if rewarding the supreme mental and emotional effort she just made for him. 'And while you're doing that for me,' he adds, 'I'll open a bottle of wine.'
"How did you know I drink wine?' she asks happily.
"The same way I knew you would let me fuck you ten minutes after we met.'
"Oh...' She escapes into the living room and lights the two candles on the fireplace mantle as he instructed her to do, wondering which high-heeled sandals he would prefer of the many pairs she owns. Then she hears the lamp click off behind her. He is completely banishing the easy comfort of electricity in favor of the warm illumination provided by the two flames flickering in the breeze from an open window, and giving off a surprising amount of light even while deepening the shadows. Her modest wine rack remains in darkness, but he walks straight towards it as though he possesses a built-in honing device for the fruit-of-the-vine. She watches him, mentally thanking her guardian angel for finally coming through. 'Shall I get us two wine glasses?' she asks.
"I told you what to do, Mira.'
She hurries into her bedroom feeling almost literally shoved into its refuge by the tone of his voice, which brooks no argument whatsoever. Almost inevitably, she selects a red pair of sandals from Victoria's Secret with stiletto heels and thin straps designed to show off the shapely curves of her feet. Then she cheats and sneaks a quick peak at herself in the bathroom mirror, only to discover there is nothing she can do with her appearance to improve it. Her cheeks are attractively flushed from having her pussy very properly fucked, and her eyes are shining with a happiness she has not seen reflected back at her for as long as she can remember. The slightly humid evening air has given an even fuller wave to her hair, and the contented smile on her lips feels like the new natural setting for her facial muscles. She also takes a moment to clean her excessively moist slit and the insides of her thighs with a tissue. His cum trickling slowly out of her is a distracting sensation, to say the least. Yet suddenly part of her feels guilty about wiping her skin clean of the evidence of his pleasure. She knows she will have to confess doing so to him to find out if he considers it a transgression, and this thought process astonishes her more than anything that has happened between them so far.
She practices a sexy walk from the bathroom to the bedroom door, where she pauses like an actress about to step out on stage for the second act of a performance that, so far, has totally captivated her, and gotten rave reviews from even the most critical parts of her mind. The sight of him sitting casually on her black leather couch, his right ankle resting on his left knee, nearly arrests her progress towards him it has such an impact on her. The white button-down shirt open halfway down his chest and tucked into silky black slacks becomes him just as much as tight black leather, the slightly full sleeves evocative of a prince's romantic garment. Sekhmet is nearly invisible curled up on his lap, obviously well aware of the fact that she has secured the best seat in the house. Stormy is lying on the floor at Phillip's feet, his head resting on his left foot clad in a polished black shoe. Two half full glasses of red wine wait beside the vase veritably exploding with roses.
The penetrating gravity of his stare draws her to him like an invisible leash, making it hard for her to walk slowly, as though she could possibly be indifferent to how soon she reaches him.
He smiles. 'Mm...'
She proudly tosses her hair back over her shoulders. Her breasts are round and firm, responding to how aroused she is in every fiber of her being.
"A black cat is a very interesting form for Cupid to take,' he remarks.
"Well, you know what they say--dogs think they're humans, cats think they're gods.'
"Come here.' He extends his right hand towards her. She reaches for it with hers, and as their fingertips touch she thinks of the Sistine Chapel's bearded old patriarch in a hospital gown offering the spark of life to a grotesquely muscular young man. Michael Angelo's talent and perseverance notwithstanding, she has never liked that fresco, and she understands why now as electricity literally crackles between her flesh and Phillip's--because the spark of life can only be ignited between a man and a woman no matter what any religions or alternative lifestyles preach. 'Stand right there,' he instructs gently, directing her slightly to one side of him. 'I want to look at you ... you have the most beautiful pussy, Mira.' He idly strokes her sleeping feline's sleek fur as he speaks. 'And you know how to use it, too. You pleased me very much out there.'
"Thank you ... Master.' Every time she uses this title to address him, Mira feels as though she deliberately shoots up a powerful drug which is making her feel better and better the more she surrenders control of herself. She never realized (although intuitively she suspected) that submitting to the right man could be so intoxicating.
"You may hand us our wine and sit down beside me now.'
She obeys him gracefully.
He chimes his glass against hers. 'To us.'
"To us,' she echoes, and they each take a sip of the Australian Zinfandel.
"Very nice,' he compliments her taste in wine.
"It's okay for the price,' she replies humbly.
"Do you drink wine every night?'
"Yes, with dinner, and usually I have a glass or two of Chardonnay before that, to relax.' She knows she sounds defensive, but she can't help thinking of Ian, and shuddering inwardly at the mere possibility of a universe in which she never saw Phillip again and ended up settling for a handsome recovering alcoholic.
"My parents own a vineyard,' he tells her.
She laughs. 'What?'
"A small vineyard in Washington State just big enough for uninhibited personal consumption and to give away cases as gifts every year.'
"And you're luscious.' He tilts her face up to his and kisses her on the lips, his mouth moving directly against hers as he whispers, 'I think you may be the one...'
"You think?' she breathes, and feels him smile.
He thrusts his tongue into her mouth and wrestle hers into breathless submission for a moment. Then he sits back comfortably and takes another sip of wine. 'I know you are,' he adds soberly. 'And to think I had almost given up hope.'
This admission of vulnerability makes him even more stunningly attractive in her eyes.
"But I don't think we should talk about the past tonight, Mira. Tonight is about the present, and everything the future holds for us.'
"Amen,' she whispers, and takes another sip of the young vintage.
"Not that I have any frightening skeletons in my closet,' he teases.
"Except for your job,' she points out quietly, glancing down at her naked breasts.
"You have an amazingly beautiful body, Mira.' He changes the subject.
"Well, I don't exactly have washboard abs,' she observes, patting the little round belly she gets when she sits down.
"And what makes you think fucking a woman with washboard abs appeals to all men? I much prefer a softer cushion. You're toned and yet soft all over. In my eyes you're perfect.'
She smiles. 'My dad used to tease me when I was little because I thought I was more beautiful than Miss Universe.'
"You're the most beautiful woman in my universe, and that's what counts.'
She sighs. 'You say all the right things, Phillip.'
He laughs. 'That's the first time a woman has ever said that to me.'
"But how is that possible?' She is genuinely indignant, and has to take another sip of wine to wash away the bad taste of other people's limited perceptions.
"I've never said such things to a woman before, Mira.'
"I believe you...'
"And you trust me.'
"Then we have all we need to embark on a very exciting life-long journey together.'
"I've been lied to before,' she confesses abruptly, setting her glass down on the table in front of them. 'I'm very trusting.'
"I know.' He places his glass beside hers. 'But you're safe with me now. I'll never lie to you, Mira, and I'll never do anything to hurt you.'
Annoyed by the motion of her warm bed, Sekhmet jumps off his lap.
"Come here.' He slips an arm around her shoulders while his other hand gently urges her cheek down against his chest. 'You believe me when I say that I'll never hurt you, don't you?'
"Yes, Master.' The sound of his heart beating has a profoundly soothing affect on her; a deep, steady rhythm she mysteriously knows she can trust for as long as they live.
"Good, and now I want you to go put on something nice. I'm taking us out to dinner.'
Posted January 19, 2005
Out of New Milford, Connecticut, of all places, have been arriving at bookstores a selection of trade-size erotic novels, handsome of cover and classy of content. This one, The Fabric of Love, was so tastefully good-looking I toted it to the cafe for a little reading with my latte--and, dear ones, never have I been as sloe-eyed and ripe in the middle of Starbucks. The key to satisfying erotica is pacing--that slow buildup of curiosity, trepidation and desire...that tremulous walk, nightgowned and barefoot, toward the candlelit room at the end of the long dark hallway...that slow compelling march up, up the winding stairs toward the master's tower and his chamber of dreadful pleasures... Pita understands this, and manages to imbue her narrative with a sense of dreamy other-worldliness that actually propels the story forward. This is a fairy tale, where plot and character development are virtually nonexistent: Mira, a lovely latina with a thriving interior design business near Washington, DC, meets Phillip, an anglo hunk, who works as a dominator in a bondage palace that caters to the women in our nation's corridor of power. It's a perfect love match, as Phillip turns out to be a thoughtful master, guiding Mira as she frees herself once and for all from the conservative restraints of her Catholic upbringing. Ah, can Pita write! Her prose is graceful and flowing without a hint of sloppiness, and her tone is delicate, playful yet serious. Bondage fantasies can be the most difficult erotica to write--unlike real life, your participants have to stay in their roles with a straight face--but the payoff can be sublime. It's one of the deep dark secrets of romance writers, and we intend to keep it that way.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 27, 2004
Maria Isabel Pita has to be, hands down, one of Americas' top erotica writers today. I have read all of her works and this new publication is a very much real life exploration into the imagination as we get to vicariously live the life of Mira Rosemond, a modern hip interior designer living in the DC area. What makes this novel great is what it isn't .... that is ... much of today's erotica has had to sell itself on extreme BDSM and violence against women that makes the ordinary person cringe. This author manages to take us on an erotic journey with Mira and Phillip as they explore each other both physically and mentally to discover that perhaps there is such a thing as a 'soul mate'. Not only the gentle side of love but also the hot sizzling sex scenes in the book are written with such skill that it's almost naughty for the reader to form a picture in the mind's eye. Take a glass of your favorite wine on a lazy afternoon and I'm sure that you'll not put it down untill either the book or the bottle of wine is finished .....Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 17, 2010
No text was provided for this review.