mia loves henry miller
Letter 26 – Beauty in the Bathtub and an Erotic Thursday Night with Mr. B
1/12/12- 5:57 p.m.
Mr. B will arrive shortly. I just got out of the bath. I’m typing to you, sitting on my living room couch, in a thick towel that has just now, fallen down around my waist, exposing my bare upper body. There is water from my wet hair dripping down upon my exposed breasts and smooth, naked skin. I wanted to start this letter as I rested for a few minutes, before having to get dressed. The heat from the very hot, bath water made me feel dizzy and light headed.
1/12/12 – 6:05p.m.
Mr. B just called, said he was running late. He’d been working diligently all day, revising several chapters of his new book. He gets sucked into the zone so deeply – generally losing all track of time. I’m delighted to have more time to write to you and hopefully get the opportunity to read a little bit more of Anne Rice’s book, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, which I had been reading in the bathtub. Anne’s words are like an aphrodisiac to me. She makes me so wet! I’m looking forward to Mr. B spending another night, even though I am a bit sore from last night’s playtime – I’m still aching with desire!
“’Most of our little Princesses are too frightened in the first few days to show such willingness to serve, Beauty,’ he said in the same cold voice. ‘They must be awakened and educated. But I see you are very passionate and much enamored of your new masters and all they wish to teach you.’” –Anne Rice, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty
1/13/12 – 9:21 a.m. (Friday morning)
I’m feeling sore in places I’d rather not mention. I’m a bit drowsy – my body fatigued with exhaustion. I’m such a needy, greedy slut! We never made it to the grocery store or a restaurant last night. It’s been two nights in a row that we feasted on sex instead of dining out for dinner. I had been writing all day, getting my next letter to you written, revised and edited. I didn’t feel like getting dressed up or putting on make–up.
“Beauty bit her lip and closed her eyes as he widened the orifice and now oiled it. She felt as if she was being pulled apart, and even under the plaster that tiny knot of feeling throbbed above the opening Leon’s fingers had broadened. ‘If he touches it, I shall die,’ Beauty thought, but he was careful not to do that, though she felt his fingers entering her, and massaging the lips of her vagina.” –Anne Rice, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty
After my long, hot, luxuriating bath, I slipped into a feminine, full length, light cornflower blue, satin nightgown, which had a long slit up the front exposing my bare legs. The long, thin spaghetti straps sensuously slithers around my shoulders, elegantly criss – crossing above a low, dipping back – revealing my smooth olive – tone skin. Far below my hips, long drapes of satin continued on, shimmering with my movements under the fire light, to the floor, slightly exposing the dimples above my buttocks.
Mr. B brought over some deli foods from Kowalski’s, as well as a salad, for dinner. It was simple, and delicious! Afterwards, we relaxed on my couch, watching the fire – Mr. B turned on some German House music. I love European House Music! Afterwards, his hands gripped the back of my long hair, pulling me up off the couch, guiding me to the bedroom – my body hummed, vibrating with ever increasing sexual energy.
His mouth whispers hotly near my ear, “You are going to be my servant, my slut, my little toy, do you understand?”
Before I can answer he flips me onto my bed, placing a long, hard, black leather whip between my teeth.
“Nod your head, little girl,” he seethes, “if you understood what I said?”
I obliged to his request, nodding my head. My eyes shut tightly when Mr. B’s hands slap my thighs hard, signaling for me to spread them. I submit, spreading my trembling legs far apart – my body shudders and my face winces when I feel the smack of his hand collide with my wet, fervid flesh. My teeth bite down hard upon the thin, black whip, channeling the burning pain that I was feeling between my widely splayed thighs.
“…we know from the lives of certain artists, men of first rank, that the great works they gave us would never have been born had they not been immersed in sex; in the case of some of these men the periods of greatest creativity coincided with extravagant sexual experience.” –Henry Miller, The World of Sex
After reading ten or so pages of Anne Rice’s book, I felt so willing to submit myself to the moment – to permit anything to happen. My breath rate quickened, my body trembled, observing Mr. B place the four leather cuffs on my arms and legs, stretching my body taut with colorful rope. I shut my eyes, pretending that Mr. B was the imperious Lord Gregory in Anne Rice’s book, and he was teaching me manners, respect, denial, submission, pleasure and punishment. A warm river of excitement flowed beneath my ass, soaking into the pale blue sheets below me.
“She obeyed, kneeling with her legs farther apart, and then farther as he pushed into her. He had become still, and now drying his hand on the towel at his waist, he touched her sex and she felt herself shudder. Her sex was moist and swollen with desire, and to her horror his hand touched a small knot in which much of her craving was accumulated.” –Anne Rice, The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty
Our minutes of playtime transcended into hours. I was being driven completely over the edge with insane arousal! My body writhing, thrusting, twisting in pain and pleasure, derived from whips, floggers, paddles, virile hands and deft appendages. Mr. B fucked me with his cock, several toys, and with the skill and talent of his hands and fingers. I took in our erotic scene moment to moment, greedily inhaling as much pleasure as I could withstand, knowing it would be awhile before I got some more quality time with Mr. B. I absolutely love the blissful pleasure of good sex!
Earlier yesterday, I wasn’t sure that I had much energy to play. I guess I was wrong! I was feeling insatiable! The more I climaxed, the more I wanted to come again and again and again. Eventually, Mr. B had enough, needing to rest. He also had to go home for awhile to let his dog out to pee. He took my loft keys, saying that he’d return in an hour.
“Anais – All that I can say is that I am mad about you. I tried to write a letter and couldn’t. I am writing you constantly – in my head and the days pass and I wonder what you will think.” –Henry Miller, A Literate Passion, Letter to Anais from Henry, March 21, 1932 – Clichy
I took this extra time to take a quick bath and do some more revising on my last letter to you. When Mr. B returned, the erotic play process started all over again. I was once more, his submissive slave. Since Mr. B’s cock had more than enough sexual satisfaction – it was all about my pleasure with his hands, fingers and sexual toys. I was in heaven! My body shuddered, convulsed, arched, and writhed with orgasmic waves of utmost pleasure. My hips ground hard into Mr. B’s hand, fucking it, squeezing my vaginal walls around his flesh, grinding my hips down upon it, causing friction, heat and bliss! Tsunami waves of erotic pleasure and gratification washed over me, overwhelming me, drowning me with hot, euphoric tingles – my toes curling, my lascivious moans echoing louder, my pleasure soaring higher and higher.
I fell into a deep slumber afterwards, snuggled up to Mr. B‘s warm body. I felt good! My mind, body and soul felt recharged!
1/13/12 – 1:47 p.m.
I must end this letter Henry. I still have so much to do before I go home tonight – to my suburban home. My mind and soul’s recharged, my physical body is exhausted, my sex is so sore, my legs and arms hurt from straining so hard on my restraints last night. My two nights of sex with Mr. B satiated my lust, which burned hotly between my legs for most of this past week. I’m looking forward to a restful weekend. Hopefully, I will have the time to finish a few more sexy illustrations, which I’m currently working on and finish another letter to you.
“The eyes opened and all the marvels of live, all its tonalities and nuances and multiplicities poured out as a feast. The body danced a dance of receptivity and response. The hair undulated and swing as if it had breathing pores of its own, its own currents of life and electricity, and the hands preceded the gesture of the body like some orchestra leaders baton unleashing a symphony.” –Anais Nin, Aphrodisiac