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 and
 again
 think
 of
 you
 observing
 me.
 
 
    The
  mirror
  is
  my
  eyes,
  you
  stand
  before
  me
  naked,
  exposed,
  in
  offering,
  and
  I
  am
 
moved,
  humbled
  by
  this
  gift,
  for
  however
  undeserving
  I
  may
  be,
  in
  this
  moment
  your
 
are
 mine.
 
    My
 fingers
 move
 to
 my
 mouth
 and
 I
 caress
 my
 breast
 with
 their
 wet
 warmth.
 
  My
 phallus
 is
 hard
 as
 marble,
 hot
 as
 lava.
 
I
  continue
  to
  stimulate
  myself
  with
  my
  other
  hand
  as
  I
  begin
  to
  feel
  waves
  of
 
sensation
 sweeping
 through
 my
 body.
 
 
     
Last
  chance
  junction
  arrives,
  where
  one
  more
  caress
  will
  unleash
  the
  eruption,
  and
  I
 
embrace
 it:
 nothing
 can
 stop
 the
 orgasm
 now…
 
     
As
 I
 climax,
 I
 bend
 as
 if
 to
 draw
 all
 of
 myself
 into
 that
 pool
 of
 ecstasy………….
 
    The
 climax
 unfolds,
 in
 exquisite
 detail,
 my
 consciousness
 dissolving
 into
 every
 pulse
 of
 
my
 body,
 every
 contraction
 of
 my
 muscles,
 and
 if
 for
 a
 moment
 only,
 I
 am
 with
 you,
 I
 
am
 in
 you,
 and
 we
 share
 this
 ecstasy
 as
 we
 share
 our
 words……….”
 
 
    The
 fact
 is
 that
 by
 the
 time
 she
 saw
 his
 message
 sitting
 in
 her
 inbox
 at
 work
 she
 was
 
full
  of
  regret
  for
  having
  sent
  hers.
  Too
  bold,
  too
  raw,
  too
  crazy.
  So
  unlike
  her.
  She
 
was
  afraid
  she
  was
  pushing
  it,
  that
  would
  be
  scared,
  that
  he
  would
  run
  away.
  She
 
barely
  managed
  to
  finish
  reading
  his
  response
  in
  one
  sitting.
  Trembling,
  dizzy,
 
perspiring,
  she
  found
  herself
  out
  of
  breath,
  quite
  literally,
  gasping
  for
  air
  in
  short
 
breaths.
 It
 would
 be
 hours
 before
 she
 could
 type
 a
 reply,
 and
 needless
 to
 say
 that
 no
 
other
 work
 got
 done
 that
 day.
 
    “This
 might
 sound
 trite,
 but
 my
 reaction
 was...............WOW!
 The
 content
 of
 your
 reply
 
was
 totally
 unexpected
 and
 therefore
 packed
 an
 even
 bigger
 punch
 than
 you
 might
 
have
 expected.
 I
 have
 read
 it
 several
 times
 and
 it
 continues
 to
 arouse
 me.
 You
 have
 
evoked
 some
 very
 powerful
 images
 and
 the
 conversational
 style
 makes
 me
 feel
 that
 
you
 are
 with
 me
 in
 a
 very
 physical
 sense.
 Almost
 like
 an
 out-‐of-‐body
 experience.”
 
    “What
 sort
 of
 man…”
 she
 began
 thinking,
 but
 no,
 such
 a
 question
 had
 now
 become
 
meaningless.
  This
  was
  Michel,
  she
  thought,
  and
  she
  repeated
  the
  name,
  over
  and
 
over,
 in
 her
 head,
 realizing
 only
 after
 a
 minute
 or
 two
 that
 she
 was
 saying
 the
 name
 
out
 loud.
 Music,
 laughter,
 a
 prayer,
 she
 was
 as
 giddy
 as
 Tony
 in
 West
 Side
 Story,
 as
 
smitten
 as
 Maria.
 Michel.
 Her
 French
 lover.
 Unlike
 anyone
 she
 had
 ever
 met
 before.
 
His
  every
  word
  a
  poem
  to
  her
  ears,
  his
  every
  sentence
  another
  silky
  strand
  in
  the
 
web
 he
 was
 weaving
 around
 her
 to
 her
 delight.
 There
 were
 the
 occasional
 moments
 
of
 fear,