Love Letters, Midnight in Paris, Erotic Fantasies, and the Roaring Twenties

(Dear Blog Readers

I am re-posting some old letters that have been revised for my upcoming book – ebook.

I thought that I’d give new readers a look into the very first letter I wrote to Henry Miller. I also wanted to re-fresh old readers by bringing them back to the beginning of my blog. I hope that you enjoy reading this letter as much as I enjoyed writing it.  Sincerely, Mia)8S2A8984

 “That night I was going to hear Henry Miller speak at an acting class, my house burned down.  I didn’t go to the lecture, but a few weeks later I still wanted to meet him.  I began to ask around for his address so I could write to him.  At the same time, I was trying to refurnish my home.  At an estate auction I discovered a first edition set of books titled Women through the Ages.  I took out one of the volumes, and there folded inside was a letter from Henry Miller to a woman.  How could I not bid on the books? Three thousand dollars later I owned them and had Miller’s address.  I wrote him, enclosing the letter I had found, as well as a few “actress” photographs of myself that I thought might pique his curiosity.  A few days later, Henry sent the first of fifteen hundred letters he was to write to me.  We became good friends and, perhaps, even more.” –Brenda Venus, Dear, Dear Brenda

Dear Henry,

I genuinely wish that I would’ve been able to communicate to you via letters when you were alive.  I would have savored and cherished the words you might have written upon paper to me in reply. Your past lovers, Brenda Venus, Hoki Tokunda, and Anaïs Nin were lucky to possess a bit of your soul, capturing your spirit with the words you once wrote to them in numerous letters. The great passion you possessed when you were alive must have bled into the ink like deep, flowing blood.  If there is a life after death – I fantasize that you are enjoying these letters.

 

I know time travel is impossible.  To satisfy my yearning to transport myself into the past, to spend time with you, I made do by slowly, over the course of many years, purchasing a vast collection of your books, reading them whenever I found a spare moment in my busy schedule.  You speak to me from another space and time, another era or realm, through your written words – through the books you have left behind.  I have an obsessive need to speak back to you from my mortal plane to your immortal plane, through my erotic, personal letters written to you, hoping to connect with you on a deep, spiritual level, beyond the limits of the physical body.

I recently watched the Woody Allen movie starring Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams, Midnight in Paris – wonderful movie, especially for writers.  I really enjoyed it – except that they didn’t include you or Anaïs Nin in the mix of great writers living in Paris during those times.  The movie reminds me of you, and writers like me.  Owen Wilson, the main character, (Gil) is a striving, aspiring author, who loved to walk the streets of Paris at night.  At midnight, he escapes, lured by several high-spirited, inebriated people, in a fancy, slick, vintage automobile, driving into the night, into another dimension in time and space – into a vintage world – the Roaring Twenties.

In this strange world, Gil meets legendary writers Hemingway, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, and artists like Picasso and Salvador Dali.  He also meets a very beautiful woman named Adriana – who had been a lover to Picasso and Hemingway, and whom Gil starts to fall in love with…

I can’t slip through a magic dimension in space and time, like Gil did in this romantic movie – to travel back to Paris, to the exciting and exuberant era when you were living there.  When you were barely surviving financially, and writing during your days and nights.  When you strolled silently, deep in thought, upon the idyllic boulevards of Paris at night – when you were making love to Anaïs, or fucking June when she visited, or when you were bedding pretty whores at naughty French brothels.

My imagination and writing is my only transport to the past, to you, in Paris.  It permits me to teleport back in time with my imagination, when you were a young, vital, hungry writer, who was full of life and passion.  I can almost see the Eiffel Tower, taste the delicious French pastries, sip indulgently upon the savory wine, experience myriad cheeses melt upon my tongue, hear the romantic melodies of Parisian people speaking the language of love, see the newest fashions, hear the tranquil current of the River Seine, and listen the cathedral bells ringing every fifteen minutes at Notre Dame.

I’m going to use my imagination, Henry, pretending that we’ve entered through a mystical door in time and space:  We are in 1920’s Paris.  I am a young, beautiful French girl, named Fifi Marie, working at a moderately priced Parisian brothel, as a prostitute.  Fifi is very passionate about life, sex, literature, art, poetry, and writing.  The only way Fifi can experience life and survive as an artist, during the Great Depression, is to make love to men and women for a living – an occupation where I can make good money for a short amount of my time, so that I can purchase books, paints, canvas, brushes, ink and paper to write on. and have enough time in my day to paint, to read, or to write.

In this fantasy, I am playing the part of  a woman, who is sexually enlightened and liberated. Fifi Marie feels no shame for her profession as a prostitute.  I’m not forced to do this. I do it because I like to do it.  I do it because I feel an intense rush to make someone feel good.  The profession was different than I initially expected.  I wasn’t so sure that I could connect with others so quickly and intimately.  After a few weeks, I find it completely invigorating and intriguing.  I think being a paid lover is a beautiful art form. It offers me great satisfaction to please someone – to sense their powerful release.  The sensation charges me like buzz from a tall can of Red Bull.  In this imaginary world, I like being with the other girls at this brothel and a part of Madame Cherie’s family.  Fifi Marie feels no remorse for her sins.

One night, after midnight, you find me at a Madame Cherie’s brothel, where you are well known.  Many of the girls at this brothel talk about you, Henry – all good things about the way you fuck.  They also say that you can be an insensitive pig.  Anaïs has just mailed you some money, which she snuck from Hugo’s wallet while he was sleeping. You are supposed to buy food and writing supplies – but you must have felt me thinking about you, my voice calling you in the night – to come to me – to share my world for awhile.

We had met once before, months ago, in the brothel’s lineup.  You probably don’t remember me – you didn’t choose me, you chose Bella.  She’s a wonderful choice – a very beautiful and an amazing lover – this I know personally.  But, it’s not her that I yearn for.  It’s you, ever since the first time I saw you and heard you passionately fucking Bella in her bedroom, which is right next to mine. The walls are old and thin with barely any insulation.

On the evening on which you pick me from the lineup, I am wearing black fishnet stockings with a tight, blood-red satin corset, shiny black pumps, and very feminine, black lace silk bloomers.  Over this I’m wearing an elegant, long sheer, black caftan, tied casually at my waist.  My hair is short, raven black in a dramatic 1920’s finger-wave style – my lips are painted a glossy ruby red – my eye make-up dark, bordered by artistic lines of charcoal black.  You immediately pick me out of the lineup, wasting no time.  You tell me on the way upstairs that I remind you of your French lover, Anaïs Nin.  She sounds beautiful and intriguing.

I can see rapacious lust filling your deep, penetrating eyes, whenever you steal quick glances at me through your round, black rimmed glasses.  Your sexual appetite is awakening as we near my room.  So is mine.  My heart is racing with apprehension, which I most often do not feel before a visit from a gentleman.  You are different, Henry.  I can feel your virility – taste your dominance in the air.   I must admit, I am apprehensive– but, my curiosity is so much stronger.

Seconds after I shut my door, you grab my arms tightly, thrusting me closer to you.  Your face nears mine, your intellectual eyes lock with my eyes, your mouth exhales heavy breaths of testosterone and lechery.  An animalistic ache penetrates my hot and sultry loins when your lips near mine and your arms embrace my feverish body. I tingle with anticipation.  I gasp softly when your confident arms grip firmly around my narrow waist. My breath rate becomes faster.  My heart beat races.  I can hardly catch my breath.  My nipples perk and harden when your body presses ardently onto mine. My knees weaken as I permit you to pilot the way in our fervid encounter.  A flush of warmth pervades every inch of my soul. My blood becomes warmer and warmer, moment to moment until I feel completely hypnotized.  Every cell in my body tingles when your mouth opens with voracity, lust and eagerness.  My toes curl when your tongue plunges and then deeply explores the depths inside my mouth, when you suck the tip of my tongue as if it were my clitoris. Your fervor grows long, thick and stiff beneath your pants.  In a carnal frenzy, my hands help you out of your trousers and undergarment.  Soon I am stroking your hot, pulsing, hard shaft a few times, squeezing it inside the palm of my hot and sweaty hand, feeling it grow harder, hotter and more erect.  I am pleased with your arousal.  I do a slow strip tease to tantalize your senses like a classic burlesque girl would. You race to unbutton your shirt, removing it rapidly, tossing it onto the floor, alongside my robe, corset, garter, stockings and bloomers.

Without speaking, you firmly guide my body until I am on my knees, sternly grabbing the back of my hair, forcing my mouth near your hardness, which drips slow and thick with arousal.  Your other hand softly stroking the side of my face, “Good girl,” you whisper down to me, praising me, “good girl.”  I am comforted, briefly.  Next, you position my face closer to your hardness, pushing it beyond my lips, deep into my mouth.  Your hand continues to tightly grip the back of my hair, pushing my head firmly downward – you enter much deeper towards the back of my throat.  My lips tightly encompass your raging hard on – my mouth sucks greedily like a newborn baby to her mother’s full, swollen breast.

I’m not used to such aggressive lovers.  I’m an inexperienced whore who is still learning her trade. Your rough demeanor is alarming as well as titillating. Your dominance excites me. Yet, it’s frightening.  This spicy flavor of sex is also enticing, intriguing, arousing, and lecherous.  I’m very wet.  There is no way that I can fake this kind of arousal, Henry.

I gasp for breath again, my eyes open wide with surprise, when you throw me down upon my freshly made bed. The Madame is strict about housekeeping.  My clean, crisp, cotton sheets are aromatic with the scent of sunshine and fresh, Parisian air.  Your red-blooded force surprises me.  Suddenly, I exhale loudly, the sounds of my hot breath echoing in the twilight air.  The illuminating rays from the full moon softly shine through my window.  Our lips collide in the night, in the beams of white heat and dancing dust, illuminating our entangled bodies.  Our tongues taste and entangle together like sinful serpents in the deep blue sea.  The flavor of your heated virility knocks the wind out of me.  I can hardly breathe when our naked bodies finally press tightly together and our hearts beat together to a hedonistic rhythm.  Immediately, I attempt to catch my breath.  I feel dizzy.  My sex aches with insane lust.  My swollen, glossy stem of pink flesh throbs profusely.  My rapacious aperture of love rains with lusty, humid moisture.

My heart beat races fast when your lips spread upward in merriment.  Your kind, inquisitive eyes remain connected with mine as your body slithers down my arching body.  Your quick yet sensual lips kiss roughly and hungrily upon my neck, my breasts, my belly, and at the “Y” between my firm thighs.  I permit you to inspect my female fruit like a curious child.  I say nothing.  My bosoms heave – my breath rate quickens. My body quivers with anticipation and avidity.  My back arches high when your fingers tickle my glistening slit and play with my little man in the boat, who is drowning with my wetness.   Each one of your fingers has its fated place and moment. They strike and dance upon my oyster shell keys, playing me like a grand piano.  I thrust my hips upon your rhythmic touch, seeking pleasure, attempting to capture each moment, and to make it last forever.  Your deft fingers continue to dip and culminate inside my constricting walls of flesh, and your soul is deep inside the zone.  Your body moves through time and space, playing an erotic melody of your own.

I exhale a long sigh when your salacious song suddenly ceases.  I melt within, feeling secure and safe, when you joyously kiss my nose, my flushed cheeks and my soft lips.  My body arches with utmost yearning.  I emit a low and voracious moan when your hand reaches for my left bosom, and your fingers grasp upon my large nipple, fondling it gently with a soft and soothing hand.  My temperature escalates higher when your fingers pull and twist my nipples with mounting pressure.  My fervid blood rushes like a mad fever to my clitoris, as if the erotic sensation in my nipple is somehow connected deeply inside me, to my stiff, wet clit.  Suddenly, you release it – my blood rushes back into the tip of my nipple – my toes now curl with scandalous rapture.

Your strong, vital force intoxicates me like a full glass of expensive champagne.  I gasp for air when two of your virile fingers plunge deeply into me, offering me a slight bit of relief – giving a small morsel to the voracious, sex demon inside me.  You enjoy observing my face, to see if I find pleasure in what you offer – to make sure that I am pleased with your deft hands and your overriding, erotic torture.  I can hardly stare back at you – I’m intimidated, I’m submissive, I’m highly stimulated and I’m absolutely euphoric from the race of endorphins beneath my skin.  I feel bewildered and lightheaded. My world is spinning.

Prior to your visit with me at Madame Cherie’s brothel, I had been with various well-paying gentlemen – none of them had been brave enough to seduce me with their strong hands and their commanding aura.  Most often, I can easily seduce them into tame, harmless beasts with just one kiss, with just one stroke from my soft yet firm hand, or with just one slide of my wet, silky tongue upon their long, hard shaft.  But you are different, Henry.  I sensed that right away.  Our passion as writers and artists explodes with carnal instincts and inflamed desires.  We live in the moment, letting the erotic drama unfold…your carnal bites with your mouth and teeth nibbling voraciously upon my stiff nipples.   I scream and moan when I feel three of your fingers plowing deeply into me, curling, wiggling, and dancing inside of my plush, velvet walls, as if a great puppeteer, making my body do things I had never imagined.

I am in “La La” Land, forgetting that you only paid for one hour of my time and attention – I’ll have to make up some kind of lie to tell Madame Cherie.  Our time together is running well over an hour.  I don’t want this to end.  I forget about the minutes on the clock.  Vehemently you fuck me like a wild beast, in a variety of lecherous ways.  You prime my pump, beginning with missionary style – your esurient teeth are scraping against my pulsing throat, like a hungry wolf upon its prey, nibbling my flesh with demand and desire.  I groan softly when you delicately bite the sensitive skin on the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine.  I’m breathless.  My quim quivers hot and moist.  I can hear laughter downstairs. Bella is fucking some guy in the room next to mine.  Her headboard is banging against my wall at a fast and furious pace. She’s very vocal about her erotic pleasure.  I let her arousal heighten mine until I push the noise out of my mind, concentrating upon your rhythm as if we were intimately and passionately dancing.

 

Both of my hands tightly grip your small, white ass wishing it would pump harder and faster.  Slowly, your hips pumps up and down, up and down, picking up pace like a locomotive departing a train station.  Your hand, gripping and pulling the back of my hair, hard, until my face winces in pain, when we fuck like beasts, doggie style – your hips thrust rapidly in fervor, crashing hard into my ass, which lunges to meet your cock, plunging it deeper inside of me. Pain and pleasure mix so divinely.  I’m thrilled beyond words.  I scream with pleasure when your hand spanks my firm ass, abandoning hot tingles.  My eyes widen, my voice is muffled when your hand quiets my moans when you cover my mouth with it.  You are driving me fucking wild, Henry.

The pleasure I imagine in my fantasy is so primal and exquisite.  I’m deeply inhaling for air, when you hand finally uncovers my mouth.  My eyes are staring at your face, which is now full of concentration.  I am admiring your self control when you suddenly cease fucking me, without ejaculating.  My voice shrills with surprise when your strong hands firmly flip me upon my back, prying my legs apart, spreading them as far as they will go.  My lascivious moans begin to escalate again when your tongue sensuously slides down my body, once more, southward, towards the hottest and wettest part of my body.  My eyes flutter and roll upwards, towards the back of my head, relishing the ecstasy when you go down on me, forever licking my clitoris and insatiable cunt.

You are relentless – devouring me intensely with your mouth.  My hands are tightly gripping at the bed sheets, wrinkling them with the dampness of my sweaty hands.  My amorous moans escalate, increasing in volume, second by second. My voice sounds raspy, my mouth and throat feel dry from panting so heavily.  My head thrashes from side to side. You play my naked body like a symphonic instrument.  My ecstasy is soaring me to the high notes, plunging me to the low notes, maintaining my pleasure with the in-between notes, and shattering my world with the ultimate, clitoral climax!

“You’re a naughty, fucking whore,” I can hear your voice chant repetitively.  I feel no shame.  Your words defile and thrill me!  My legs are flung over your shoulders, trembling, and my mind is floating inside a world of mad, spinning passion.  You thrust your virile hips, slapping your skin upon my tight, firm bum of flesh. Our bodies collide in a luscious rhapsody.   My heart is pumping faster.  I can hardly breathe.  With a melodic force, I open my mouth wide, expelling a string of sated moans.  You are fucking me deeper and faster.   Our skin crashes together, h arder and faster. Voraciously, I take all of you inside of me, constricting and releasing my sexual walls of flesh.  My raspy voice is erotically moaning into the Parisian twilight. I’m sure that the entire brothel can hear me my sensual song of satisfaction.  I desperately desire a drink of water, wine, or champagne to quench my thirst derived from so much fire and passion.  In this significant place in time and space, we are two lovers, meeting in Paris after Midnight.  Our night is raw and brutal, devouring and demanding, sensuous and satisfying.

“Oh yes, Henry…just like that, Henry…Please, I want more, please Henry…” I chant in hot whispers like an eastern mantra – my eyes rolling again towards the top of my head, my eyelashes fluttering fast and uncontrollably.  Only the whites of my eyes are exposed. You continue to ram your carnal hips down upon me, harder, deeper, and faster – my back is pressed deep into my mattress, my head is thrashing rapidly from side to side.  I can hardly withstand the tsunami waves of erotic bliss.  Suddenly, silent screams hiss hotly at the back of my throat, rolling off my tongue, exhaling into the room as if an extremely long, loud, scorching whisper.  My body shudders prior to releasing everything that I have inside of me – my entire body shakes hard from a peaking orgasm.  My red painted fingernails dig into your rugged, vanilla skin.  My vaginal walls are now constricting, more rapidly, releasing, and gripping around your hard, throbbing cock. Your virile hips thrust at a more feverish, frantic, rapid pace – your cock’s thrusting deeper and harder into me, driving me further into a mind blowing realm.  I cannot believe that I’m going to climax again, as you continue to pump and grind your hips between my trembling thighs, pounding your cock into me, faster and harder than ever before.

Our sexual energy passionately entangles, escalating our pleasure higher and higher until I feel the intensity of your orgasmic energy – your scorching hot, white liquid spraying my sexual walls.  I relish in the hot liquid which sprays my tunnel of lust, which tighten like a vice grip on your cock, my titillation splashes upon your flesh like a tidal wave when my body eventually explodes with multiple orgasms.  You wait until my last shudder before you dismount me, flopping with exhaustion upon my bed.  I turn my head to observe you resting upon your back, your chest heaving, attempting to catch your breath.  I smile with satisfaction as your hand wipes the salty sweat away from your eyes.  My smile grows larger when I witness the sinful smile of satisfaction upon your face.   Your eyes are twinkling in the moonlight – merry and bright.

Suddenly, there is a knock upon the door.  Our bodies jolt from our sleepy, satiated state, our muscles stiffening with alarm when we hear Madame Cherie sternly ask, “Fifi…are you still in there with Henry?” She knocks harder upon the door, “Henry! If you are in there, you penniless writer, I’m going to ban you from this brothel immediately!”

You suppress your laughter with a smile and naughty twinkle in your eyes, as you quietly put on your round, black-rimmed glasses before getting out of my messy bed, and slipping on your under garment, trousers, stained white shirt, faded black suit coat and matching fedora hat.  Your cock is still drenched with my sexual juice.  “Fifi Marie, the extra time you spent with Henry is coming out of your share of the pay! Don’t make me have to punish you! Henry, I know that you are in there with Fifi, you do this all the time to my girls – seduce them into extra time…you freeloading pig!   I don’t know why I put up with you!  I highly suggest that you get dressed and go! Don’t return to my brothel for a very long time…you understand?” She hollered with a stern maternal tone through my bedroom door.

“Oui, Madame Cherie,” you say, slowly opening my bedroom door, looking sheepishly downward at the worn, faded hardwood floors, departing my room, closing the door behind you. You politely tip your hat to Madame Cherie, escaping through the brothel’s front door as fast as you can.  You enter into the Parisian night with a light step, whistling a French tune which Anaïs Nin has recently taught you.  Your smile is large, happy for the great fuck, while walking under the illuminating moon and glittering stars upon the vintage boulevards of Paris.

End of fantasy…

I must say good night Henry.

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

 

A Box of Chocolates for my Mistress – A Mouthful of Grossness for Her Submissive

October 29, 2016

Dear Henry,

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing. – Anais Nin

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I want to tell you about a hilarious time when I brought my Mistress at Ground Zero Nightclub a big, yellow box of Whitman chocolates.  I was feeling very naughty. I felt the desperate need to prove just how much I wanted to get into trouble.

(Many of my readers have been following my blog for a very long time. Some of you are familiar with my years as a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis.  I used to write about my experiences for a column called the Lady M diaries at MindCaviar.com( Jamie Joy Gotto Houck). I used to create all of the erotic art for this e-zine and for Peacock Blue (Oceania) and Custom Erotic Source – which was owned by Sage Vivant.

I was a performance submissive at Ground Zero Nightclub. I began submitting to a Dominant named Daddy on the main stage, before becoming Mistress Jean’s aka International Fetish Models Jean Bardot’s submissive in her torturous lair in the upstairs loft. It’s been a very long time, since I’ve performed at Ground Zero as a submissive.  Please forgive me if my details are foggy and laced with fiction.  I’m sewing fact and fiction together to create a memorable story as content for my blog.  My letters are raw – these are rough drafts for upcoming books.  I like to think of them as raw journals or diaries.  I’m catching glimpses of time before they slip completely away from my memory.  These letters are more for me than for my readers. If you enjoy reading them  – it’s a bonus for me.

Because it’s near Halloween,   I thought of candy.  I’m hoping to post memories of some of the great Halloween skits that I’ve performed in at Ground Zero Nightclub in NE Minneapolis very soon.)

 

“Life is a box of chocolates – you never know what you are going to get.” – Forrest Gump

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I had been a Bondage A-Go-Go Dancer at GZ for approximately two years prior to becoming Mistress Jean’s submissive, who performed regularly upstairs in the loft.  Today, the loft no longer exists.  I didn’t really know any of the performers until MJ befriended me, taking me under her wings and making me the submissive she opened her show with every night GZ hosted its Bondage A-Go-Go nights.  I hadn’t been Mistress Jean’s submissive for long before I trusted her enough to do something that might get me into serious trouble.

“I’m feeling really naughty tonight,” I said to my husband, Mr. C, sitting in the passenger seat of our vehicle, on our way to the nightclub. “Can we stop and get a box of chocolates on our way to the nightclub? I have a sinister idea.”

The cold, frigid, Minnesota Fall weather had my body feeling achy and tired. The muscles in my low back and neck screamed in pain and my nerves felt like they were on fire.  I wanted to do something that would get me in big trouble with my Mistress. I craved for a large, endorphin rush created by punishment.  My sick mind required more physical pain than what was normally inflicted upon me by MJ on a normal GZ night.

“I thought you were giving that box of Whitman Chocolates to your Mistress?” My husband asked after we exited Walmart – entered our car again, finishing our journey to the nightclub.  I had removed the cellophane wrapper and opened the top of the large, yellow box.

“I am,” I replied, poking my fingers into the yucky chocolates, taking half bites out of some of them, and spitting them back out onto a paper napkin.

“Why are you destroying all the chocolates which you don’t like? I don’t think it’s a very good idea.

“It’s part of my plan.” I smiled wickedly.  “I feel so naughty tonight. I’m itching for trouble.”

We both laughed.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Mr. C interrupted – his voice now sounding more serious than ever. My wicked laughter trailed off into nervous giggles.  Yet, I’m still headstrong and go forward with my nefarious idea.

It was close to midnight when I brought them upstairs to MJ torturous lair at GZ. It was the time she generally summoned me upstairs to begin the BDSM show.  This is when numerous patrons would flee upstairs to see me get punished by Mistress Jean.  We always had a large audience for the opening BDSM act of the night.

“I brought you a gift,” I told my Mistress, presenting her with an opened box of Whitman chocolates.

MJ appeared happy and pleased when I presented her with my box of destroyed chocolates, until she opened the lid. I recall hearing MJ expel one of her wicked laughs that sent chills down my spine.

“Mia, why is there chocolates that look as if you poked the bottoms out with your finger or some that appear as if you took a bit out of it?”

I shrugged my shoulders as if I knew nothing. My lips curled upward in a naughty grin.  I quickly averted my eyes away from hers, peering down towards the floor.

“Sit down.”

I nervously gulped down air as I sat down upon the tortuous, vintage, dentist chair.

“Open your mouth.”

I reluctantly did as I was told.

“Why are all the chocolates in this box ruined?” MJ appeared tall and gorgeous wearing a tight black corset, a small pair of black panties, a beautiful black bra, fishnet stockings and gorgeous, black, fetish boots.

“Because I wanted to find out what chocolates were good and which ones were bad.” I replied sheepishly.  My heart pounded with apprehension as MJ began to shove all of the gross chocolates into my mouth one my one.  My mouth filled with sugar, caramel and other gross goo like cherry and walnut cream – Gross.  I gagged as a multitude of gross chocolates were being shoved into my mouth.  I didn’t want to swallow.

Not too many people know that the worst kind of punishment for me is having sugar on my teeth and being tickled.  I welcomed physical pain, but sugar on my teeth and tickling could make me cry.  I also hate having food in my mouth that I don’t like.  To me it’s like having an uncircumcised cock in my mouth that hasn’t been washed for a month.  My plan for receiving intense, physical pain back fired.

I had to sit with melting chocolate in my mouth for what appeared to me to be a long time.  I appeared like a hamster with its cheeks stuffed full of food. Regardless of how hard I tried, I couldn’t make myself swallow the goo and sugary substance down.   I could tell that MJ and Mr. C were enjoying that my evil, wicked plan to bring MJ chocolates on this night didn’t work the way I intended. They both were hiding their sadistic grins as sheer panic widened my eyes and disgust deformed my face.  I recall how the chocolate, caramel, and other grossly filled chocolate irritated my teeth.  The sweetness of numerous gross chocolates mixed in my mouth made me want to violently vomit all over my Mistress’ gorgeous shoes. I knew if I did this vile, horrible act, my little joke would become a terrifying nightmare.

To me, it seemed to take forever to swallow them down my constricting throat.  I wished for a glass of water to help dissolve the sugar in my mouth.  My stomach wanted to regurgitate, my face cringed, and my heart beat raced with fear and disgust.  My mouth felt slimy with chocolate, caramel and crème goo when MJ secured my hands in leather cuffs, bounding them above my head.  It would’ve been the same if I had a month worth of spoiled, rotten cum in my mouth.  I pushed my discomfort from my mind as I jutted my buttocks outward, anticipating my punishment.  It was difficult to grunt, groan and moan with a slimy, sugary bunch of chocolate in my mouth.  This was the worst of the punishment.  I could hardly enjoy the spanking part because my mind was so obsessed with washing my mouth out with water and brushing my teeth. I couldn’t slip into the zone.  I couldn’t focus. My naughty plan backfired on me. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t slip into a calm, surreal subspace as my ass was being beat by a sturdy wooden paddle.

This was the last time I thought of purposely getting into trouble with my Mistress by bringing her a box of ruined chocolates during my long duration as a submissive at Ground Zero.  My idea to be punished severely back fired.  I couldn’t really enjoy the spankings, but MJ and Mr. C sure enjoyed my suffering, chuckling to themselves after I was liberated from my punishment – grateful that I pack a toothbrush in my purse.

We laughed for years after this crazy dilemma I got myself into.  I never have truly enjoyed eating chocolates every since.

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Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.”
― Henry MillerStand Still Like the Hummingbird

 

 

 

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 52 – A New Path in Life, Wedding Anniversaries, and Wonderful Memories

Mia Loves Henry Miller – Letter 52 –  A New Path in Life, Wedding Anniversaries, and Wonderful Memories

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                                 Photo of Me and my monkey named after Henry Miller doing a kinky, burlesque number

Dear Henry,

My grandchildren are fabulous and funny. – Erica Jong

My life has drastically changed ever since my granddaughter’s father passed away on Mother’s Day, 2013.  My husband and I now have Little Miss M in our custody.  Sometimes she is pure joy and other times she is full of mess and mischief.  She is at daycare today.  I finally have the time to write to you without any interruptions.  Over the past five months, my life has been turned upside down.  I never thought that I would be a guardian of a cute, charismatic toddler at my age.  I don’t get the time to do the things that make me truly happy, like writing on a regular basis, re-editing my first fifty letters to you, or painting at my nice, quiet artist loft in the cities, which I no longer have.  However, I cannot imagine my life without Little Miss M, even though she can drive me nuts with her constant alien chatter, her cute yet mischievous ways, and her continuous movement.  She also showers me with so much love and affection. It melts my heart and turns me into Mia Mush. Little Miss M kisses me until my breath is completely depleted.  She makes me laugh even when I want to cry with frustration, because she is so adorable and charismatic.  I watch her with joy and amusement.  She does such silly things like dance, whenever she hears music.  She’s very entertaining, with a natural rhythm born in her soul.

Last night, an hour before our bed time, I was in the kitchen.  Little Miss M and Mr. C were in the living room watching cartoons.  I am getting sick of Curious George.  I will scream with madness if I have to watch another episode on Netflix.

“Are you pooping?” I heard my husband ask Little Miss M, as I peered into our living room and observed Little Miss M squatting in the corner where her toys are located.

“Go away,” Little Miss M ordered my husband, waving her tiny hand at him with annoyance.

“Are you pooping?” He asked again, as I wiped the kitchen counter top clean.  I smirk with delight for a brief second and squish my noise up in disgust, knowing that I am going to have to change her diaper soon.

“I’m bine (fine),” Little Miss M demands, in her own, unrefined, toddler language. “Top (stop) it Bampa (grandpa),” She yells in irritation to Mr. C, once again waving her tiny hand at him.

“Are you pooping?” My husband asks again, peering over the rim his glasses, unable to conceal the smirk of beguilement on his distinguished face.

“Go away,” Little Miss M insists again, shaking her head from side to side, her honey blonde wave of curls swishes from side to side. “No, I’m bine (fine).  I’m not pooping,” even though she was.  Over the past several months we have come to learn well when Little Miss M is pooping.

“Come here, Little Miss Poopy Pants,” I demanded after entering the living room, strutting in Little Miss M’s direction, gulping down a lump of repugnance.  I was not looking forward to changing another shitty diaper.

“I cannot wait until she is fully potty trained.” I muttered softly to myself.  We have been working on potty training Little Miss M for several months.

“No, I’m bine (fine). I’m bine,” Little Miss M insists that her diaper is not full of smelly, stinky poop as I swoop her up in my arms and sniff at her butt like a mother dog.

“Yes, you were pooping,” I reply, attempting not to giggle. “Let’s go change your diaper.  How come you did not tell me you needed to use the potty?” I ask, grinning largely, tickling Little Miss M’s belly.

“I’m bine. I’m bine.” She repeats, giggling loudly as I carry her off to the bedroom to change her dirty, smelly diaper.  Little Miss M cannot stand the smell of her own shit.  I always laugh when she gags profoundly when I am changing one of her dirty diapers.  It gives me a little bit of satisfaction for having to do such a gross job.  I should be gagging more than her, because I am downwind when I am changing Little Miss M’s diaper.

“I will not change poopy diapers,” Mr. C seriously stated a few days after Little Miss M came to live with us.

“Pussy,” I thought inside my head, knowing that the dirty jobs like puking or pooping would always be my responsibility.

Most of my days are spent with Little Miss M.  I am forever chasing after her, screaming or chanting the word, “no,” as she discovers the cardboard box containing my Bristol Paper, Sharpie pens/markers and Prisma Color Markers, which I use to create art, or when she feeds her cupcakes to the dogs, or pulls them tortuously around the living room by their collars.  Sometimes, it is not until hours afterwards when I bust my gut laughing at all the naughty things Little Miss Mel has done during our days together.

Most often, on the weekends, Mr. C and I take Little Miss Mel on an adventure.  Sometimes it is the zoo, sometimes it is walking around the Minneapolis Lakes, sometimes it is driving to Duluth for Russ Kendall’s Smoked Fish, and one of Betty’s delicious Pies. Sometimes we visit the nearby park or go to the Mall of America.  We took Little Miss M to the Minnesota State Fair this past August.  It was fun to watch her enjoy some of the foods, like the deep fried cheese curds and pronto pups covered with large blobs of ketchup.  Mr. C and I also love to observe people.  My husband is a private detective and I have always been a writer, so observing others is something that we both enjoy doing together, ever since we first met.  On the day we visited the Minnesota State Fair, the weather was extremely hot and humid, walking through thick crowds and observing extremely thick people shoveling fried food into their mouths, as if they had not eaten for days.

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I love it when funny or peculiar events occur that stain the memories of that moment in time, inside my brain. An hour after we arrived at the State Fair, Mr. C, Little Miss M and I took retreat in the shade to rest for a bit. We walked past a very frustrated father and his two, naughty boys. The boys had been buckled into a large, double stroller designed to fit two children, until one of them escaped.  His name was Archer.  As Archer was running as fast as he could, away from his father and his brother who was still buckled into the stroller, I could hear his father yell, “Archer, get back here.”  The other brother had very light blond hair and wore black rimmed glasses, reminding me of the boy, Ralphie, from the classic movie, A Christmas Story, as he cheered Archer on. “Run Archer Run! Faster! Faster!”  Soon, Archer was running even faster as his father chased after him. The chase ceased when the father heard his other son cheer Archer on.  Suddenly he stopped and turned around, huffing and puffing. His face glowed red with frustration. The father was fuming with anger, stomping his feet in long, hurried strides towards the smirking boy in the over sized stroller.

The blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses immediately knew that he was in trouble.  His pernicious smirk quickly fades when his father approaches the stroller, yelling and shaking the blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses. I thought to myself as I observed from a distance, “Now, that is a parent who does not sugar coat his discipline with calm, nauseating words. He is definitely old school.  I also wondered why he did not continue to chase Archer who was now swallowed up by the large, flowing crowd.  Where was Archer’s mother?”

Before the father could loosen his grip on his mouthy child to scurry himself back into the crowd to find Archer, we hear frantic, female screams, who we assumed was Archer’s mother, slicing through the thick crowd of people, and hot humid air.  Her screams quickly escalated higher, transcending into a frantic pitch.  “Archer! Archer! ARCHER! ARCHER!”

Mr. C and I turned our heads to look at one another. Our eyebrows are raised with disbelief at the family fiasco we observed. Our mouths were shaped like surprised little O’s. Eventually, Archer was found. We witnessed his mother tugging hard upon Archer’s ear, escorting her son back to the double seated stroller. Eventually Archer was buckled alongside his brother in the double stroller and his family disappeared into the flowing sea of people.

Mr. C pushed Little Miss M in her pink stroller, after our rest in the shade. We slowly made our way through the crowd of slow walking people.  I was shocked at the people who walked against the crowd and stared them down with an evil stare when they would not get out of our way.  At one point, I thought Mr. C was going to crash Little Miss M’s stroller into a tall, fat, intoxicated man who would not move aside, as we continued to try to push our way through the herd of people. Mr. C grumbled with discontent.  He mumbled under his breath a long string of rude comments directed at the intoxicated dumb ass; as we pushed our way past him. Little Miss M did not mind the crowd or the stupid, drunk people.  She loves to be the center of attention.  She smiled at everyone who passed us, waving her little, dainty hand like a princess on a parade float, saying, “hi,” to everyone she saw, with bright eyes and an adorable smile.

Later, in the afternoon, we stopped near a bandstand where upbeat music was playing.  I needed to change Little Miss M’s soaking wet diaper. The restrooms were full, so we found a shady, discrete place in the park, not too far from the band stand.

“Hurry,” Mr. C told me in an over protective tone, “I don’t want any perverts staring at Little Miss M.”

I did my best to change her diaper as quickly as I could.  It was impossible. Little Miss M loves music, she loves to dance, and she loves to be the center of attention.  When the cool breeze evaporated the wetness on Little Miss M’s bare, little bottom, she quickly stood up and began to dance to the upbeat music.  Her little feet shuffled, dancing quickly away from Mr. C and me.  She moved so rapidly, I could not get a dry diaper on Little Miss M fast enough.  It was a struggle to get Little Miss M back onto the blanket which we had spread out on the grass to change her diaper.  Little Miss M continued to dance and wave at everyone nearby with her bare bottom exposed to everyone she greeted. She was definitely comfortable in her own skin.

When I finally put a dry diaper on Little Miss M, and her denim shorts back on, I shrugged my shoulders, grinning with embarrassment and said to Mr. C, who was very red in the face, “She’s definitely a future burlesque star.”  We both laughed as we buckled Little Miss M back into her stroller, pushing our way through the crowd again. Little Miss M’s head was bobbing up and down to the beat of the music, which continued to play at the bandstand.  As it faded from our ears, Little Miss M continued to wave her hand, sitting in her stroller, smiling and greeting the people we passed in the hot, smelly crowd.  Fried food lingered on people’s breath and expelled a foul order from their dripping sweat.  I often feel blessed that Little Miss M spices up our life.  Our trip to the fair might have been dull without observing Little Miss M’s reaction with the crowd.

In the beginning of Little Miss M’s stay with us, I fought tooth and nail about having to be the guardian of a small child at my age. I had already gone through the growing pains of raising my children. It was like I was fighting to remain a float upon a torrential wave of unsettling emotions. The strong current of fight and resistance tugged me downward to drown in a hopeless sea. I did not want to sacrifice all that I have worked hard for, ever since my children became young adults. I fought the thoughts of having to possibly give up writing, art work, magic and burlesque.  It was not until I finally surrendered to the moment, learning to enjoy my time with Little Miss M, when I discovered how to float and survive each minute in life.  When I acquiesced to this new journey in my life, I felt more serene and stable.

Art created by Mia Malone-Jennings, inspired by the late, great pin-up artist, Bill Ward

Art created by Mia Malone-Jennings, inspired by the late, great pin-up artist, Bill Ward

In the beginning weeks of my new adventure with Little Miss M, I thought that I had to give up writing letters to you, my artwork and burlesque show, in order dedicate my time to care for Little Miss M.  During the past several months I have learned to be creative in other ways, like creating homemade beads to create jewelry at a minimal cost, bake cupcakes, and sometimes find time to create a new art portrait, or write my letters to you, in small increments of my time.  It may take me longer to create a new art piece or write a letter to you, Henry, but, eventually I complete a new art portrait, another letter, produce another burlesque show, and re-edit a few of the first fifty letters to you, so that I can eventually published it as a book.  My projects often appears as a large task to me.  I figure that if I can move a little bit further on a project whenever I find the time, it is better than wasting the moment doing something non-productive.  Today, I feel joy again, as Little Miss M’s in daycare for today, I have the silence of my day to serenade me like peaceful music as my fingers float quickly across my keyboard, writing this letter to you.  I love the sensual sounds of the click-clack-clicks, when my fingers type fast sentences and quick paragraphs.

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Fourteen years ago today, October 8, 2013, I wed my soul mate, Mr. C in Sin City.  My divorce from Mr. D.A. had just been signed and finalized three days prior to us leaving for Last Vegas. I had been separated from my first husband for three years.  He dragged his feet, consenting to a divorce. Mr. C and I originally had plans for a small wedding in the backyard of our beautiful, country home. Unfortunately, Mr. C was in a terrible car accident a few weeks before we were to be married.  He was hit by a drunk driver.  His injuries consisted of several ruptured disks in his neck and three broken ribs. Since I loved the city of Las Vegas and Mr. C had never traveled there, we decided to have an intimate wedding in Nevada.

“Why should we spend all of our money on feeding guests, pleasing friends and family, when we can go to Las Vegas and try to have a wonderful time and an intimate wedding, “ I said to Mr. C,  several days after his car accident, as he suffered in silence, watching television on the living room sofa. “I had a big wedding with Mr. D.A. and it was a disaster.  I don’t think that I can endure another disastrous wedding.  You will love Las Vegas. Our time will be spent together, alone. We won’t be worrying about pleasing everyone.  It will be exciting and romantic.”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied, “I think your idea sounds wonderful.”

“We have to celebrate life,” I softly spoke, sitting next to the man I loved so deeply on the sofa.  “Your life was almost taken in that accident.  I don’t know what I would do without you in my life.  On the day we get married, I want you all to myself.  I don’t want to share you with anyone.”  I kissed Mr. C lovingly, passionately, and softly upon his lips.

“Your life could have been taken as well, “Mr. C replied. “On the night of the car accident, if you were not at home beading your wedding dress, and would have come a long with me when I picked my son up from the roller skating rink, you might be dead. The drunken asshole totally demolished the passenger side of the Time Machine. (That is what we called our Ford Tempo at the time).  I don’t think you would have lived through the accident.  I am lucky to be alive.  I am lucky to have you still in my life, darling.”

“We need to celebrate life and buy our airline tickets as soon as possible,” I replied as I got off the sofa, and began heading upstairs to use the land line in our office to call our friends and family to inform them about the change in our wedding plans. “I am going to need to buy a new, wedding dress.  The hundreds of beads on the dress that I was diligently designing broke on the evening of your accident.  It took me forever to sweep up all of those tiny beads. I can’t believe that I had spent the last three months of my life creating that dress.  It kind of sucks it did not turn out.  I am pretty sure that I can purchase an inexpensive, beautiful dress in less than a week. Do we have the cash?”

Over the next week, I searched all over the Twin Cities to purchase an inexpensive, yet beautiful wedding dress.  I wanted it to be off white.  I kept a positive attitude during my shopping excursion. Since I have always had to live with having a small, financial budget, especially for clothing, I always came across the right garment for the right price.  Sometimes I designed and sewed my own clothing.  I was confident that I would discover the perfect, wedding dress in a second hand boutique, which I eventually discovered on Excelsior Boulevard.  It was the color of champagne. The bust of this dress shimmered with beautiful beading.  The back of the dress had numerous, satin covered buttons down the back of the dress, and a gorgeous, long train.  It looked like a dress from a Cinderella story.  I was grateful for the cost of this exquisite dress – $100.00.  I love finding new treasures at a magical price.

We spent our first day in Las Vegas visiting all the Casinos on the strip, got our marriage license from the Clark County Courthouse, and was entertained in the evening with an elegant, erotic show at the Stardust Casino. As we toured Las Vegas, I loved witnessing the thrilled look in Mr. C’s eyes as he observed Sin City for the first time.  We stayed at the Golden Nugget Casino located on Fremont Street.  It was close to the court house.  Mr. C was excruciating pain due to his broken ribs, but he refused to permit his pain override his excitement.  During the afternoon on our second day in Las Vegas I went to the Golden Nugget’s Salon. I wanted my hair styled in an elegant, classic up do, before we got married.  I felt like a sparkling Princess when the talented, hair dresser finally finished my hair, sprinkling a small amount of white glitter upon my barrel curls, and then lavished several of the bobby pins, which kept my smooth, neat, barrel curls in place, with white, iridescent pearls.

“I have an elaborate wedding dress with a lot of buttons on the back. Is there anyone in this casino who could help me button up my dress before my wedding ceremony?” I asked my hair dresser after I paid her for her service and tipped her very well.

An hour before we left for the wedding chapel, there was a knock on my door.

“Hello, Ma’am, I am here to button up your wedding dress,” greeted a plump, hotel maid. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. Her teeth glowed bright white.  Her short, black, curly hair was sprinkled with grey.

“Come on in,” I smiled. “Thank you so much for helping me,” I said graciously, sighing with relief as I let the hotel maid in and closed the door behind her.

I had my dress on before she arrived.  The only task for the hotel maid was to button the back of my dress.  I felt a deep sense of love for my groom, and gratitude for the help I was receiving from the hotel maid as she started buttoning up the back of my wedding dress. I could not move. I could only observe Mr. C getting dressed into a pair of sharp, black dress pants, black suspenders, an off white dress shirt, and fancy black silk tie through a small crack in the bathroom door.  When my dress was finally buttoned, and the long train on my dress was securely bustled up, Mr. C tipped the hotel maid well, for her assistance, prior to her walking out our hotel room door.  She added magic to the beginning of our wedding night, creating a warm, kind, and maternal memory for me.

The first time I got married, I had to wear two wedding gowns – an American one, and a Korean one. I found it stressful to quickly change from one dress with another. It slowed down our wedding. By the time I had reached our wedding reception, the food had already been served to our guests and my wedding cake had been cut. I cried in the bathroom for almost an hour.  On the day I wed my second husband, I felt no distress getting into this fairy tale gown.  The hotel maid’s aura was peaceful, kind and maternal.  She made me feel serene and well taken care of.

My heart beat fast as I held Mr. C’s hand in the elevator.  I could hardly breathe. My palms were sweaty from nervousness.

“You have a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” I replied, to the middle – age gentleman who shared the elevator with us, blushing with abashment until we reached the hotel lobby.  A shiny, black, four door Sedan was waiting for us, outside the glass front door of our hotel, to take us to the Chapel near the Riviera Casino. I had read on the internet that Whoopi Goldberg had been wed in this chapel.  I love Whoopi Goldberg.  I felt that this was our lucky chapel to be wedded in.

Our ceremony was quaint, classic, and exquisite.  It did not feel like a cheesy, wedding ceremony on the Las Vegas’ strip.  It was romantic, uncomplicated and very intimate.  Joyous tears pooled in Mr. C’s and my eyes, as I walked calmly, elegantly, and slowly down the aisle towards him at the altar. I stared at his handsome face with love struck eyes as if he was were my main focal point while giving birth to a child.  I felt hypnotized with every step I took closer to my groom, serenaded by the beautiful song composed and sung by Savage Garden, Truly, Madly, Deeply.  When I arrived at Mr. C’s side, the timeless melody of Jim Croce song, “Time in a bottle, projected from the stereo speakers. Mr. C firmly held my hand as we stared deeply and lovingly into each other’s eyes until the beautiful song ended. When our short wedding ceremony was finished, Mr. C and I kissed each other with undying passion, projecting energy from the depths of our love, and our souls.  On that afternoon, at the altar, we kissed – truly, madly, deeply.

When we returned to our hotel room, Mr. C helped me unbutton my dress and remove it, exposing my white laced lingerie.  His kiss was warm, passionate and loving, when he gently reclined my body onto our hotel bed.  We made love to each other for hours, despite the agony of Mr. C’s broken ribs.  I was pleasured with foreplay for a very long time, until Mr. C’s diamond hard shaft drove deep within me, and we exploded with combustible rapture – our climax was mind-blowing. When our naked bodies unlocked from our embrace, my body immediately went weak, collapsing upon the bed.  My soul felt electrified.  My blood stream was hot and racy.  My grin was so large, feeling like the luckiest woman alive.  I knew that I would and could love Mr. C for the rest of my life – truly, madly, deeply.  After we recovered, we fed each other wedding cake. It was incredibly romantic.

I brought two dresses to wear on my wedding day and night in Las Vegas.  After we made love,  I no longer looked like a fairy tale princess.  I appeared like a vixen cloaked in a sexy, short, black leather skirt and jacket, black, thigh high, fishnet stockings, a black garter and matching bra, as well as knee high, black leather boots.  Mr. C wore faded Levi’s, and the off white dress shirt he wore at our wedding ceremony.  When we walked outside of our hotel we were astounded by the light show on Fremont Avenue.  The walk ways on Fremont Avenue was crowded, full of tourists, the homeless, scam artists and soulful musicians.  Mr. C and I watched in awe at the assortment of people. It was a wonderful way to start our new life together as man and wife.

Our Wedding Night

I remember it well beneath the Vegas lights,

It was mid October when we two lovers wed,

Thereafter we made love upon our hotel bed,

O’ how he made sweet love to me!

I remember it all so well-our fairytale like night.

It was simple, yet, so perfect, as if wedded in a dream.

My pulse quickened standing at the altar, hand in hand,

My hand wrapped in his hand,

His hand held by my hand,

It was there upon my lips he kissed me,

In silence we stood as if frozen, hour glass sand,

And time stood still upon this dreamy scene.

Before him I stood with pearls in my hair,

Laced within my tresses of auburn hair,

So love struck in his eyes I stared,

“I Do,” I heard his heart confess to me,

“My darling,” I said touching his face with care,

“My heart will be yours for eternity.”

We whispered our vows beneath the Vegas lights,

Thereafter we watched the Fremont Show of lights

Together we stood hand in hand in love, that special night

Husband and wife, him and me

I’ll never forget that romantic, desert night

It was as if it were a fairytale in some kind of dream.

                                                                                       Author, Mia

On the last day in Las Vegas we visited the MGM Grand Hotel. I have always enjoyed Frank Baum’s legendary story, The Wizard of Oz.  The gift shop was full of memorabilia from the movie.  I have always been a book lover and squealed with delight when I saw the hardcover book, authored by Frank Baum’s great grandson, Roger S. Baum, The Lion of Oz and the Badge of Courage.  When I saw Roger S. Baum autographing his book for a few other fans, I knew that I had to purchase a copy.  I was overjoyed that I was going to get an autographed copy.  Ever since Mr. C and I met, our lives were like magic.  We were always in the right place at the right time.  The author projected a warm aura as I told him how important the metaphorical messages from the story, The Wizard of Oz, had impacted my life at a young age.  I told him that I even had a dog named Toto when I was very young. We talked for awhile about writing, poetry and life experiences.  Roger S. Baum was down the earth, warm and friendly.  I loved my visit with him.

Ten years later, Mr. C and I returned to Las Vegas to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary.  We stayed at the Hilton. After my divorce from Mr. D.A. (my first husband), my visit to Sam Dimas, California and meeting Mr. California Man, I was extremely passionate about the music from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s, The Phantom of the Opera.  I love to create art listening to the passionate, operatic music on several CD’s.  Before I met my second husband, Mr. C, I had told myself that I would marry the man who took me to see the production of The Phantom of the Opera.  A few months after Mr. C and I met, he surprised me with two tickets for The Phantom of the Opera, playing at the Orpheum Theater in Minneapolis.  He even searched every store in the Twin Cities to purchase my first pair of black satin, over the elbow, gloves which matched my long, black velvet evening dress.  I cried with joy during the entire production, because I could not believe that I was finally seeing The Phantom of the Opera for the first time in my life.  I had only dreamed about my seeing The Phantom of the Opera.

Mr. C treated me like a princess ever since we met.  He wanted to transcend each one of my life fantasies and erotic fantasies into a reality. The fingertips of my black satin gloves were damp from my tears when the curtain came down when the amazing production was finished. I had pools of tears in my eyes when we exited the Orpheum Theater and walked onto Hennepin Avenue. I was grateful for the warm, summer breeze, which quickly evaporated the tears which glistened with wetness on my cheeks.

On our ten year wedding anniversary, I had booked airline tickets to Las Vegas and VIP tickets to see the Phantom of the Opera at the Venetian Hotel.  We desperately needed to get away for some quality time together.  We were living with Mr. C’s mother, taking care of her needs prior to her death and living with my youngest, teenage daughter, who could be a whirlwind of stress and frustration.  Prior to seeing the show, Mr. C and I had amazing, mind blowing sex.  We spent a few hours in our hotel prior to getting ready to see The Phantom of the Opera.  My heart beat raced with escalating titillation.  I gasped with arousal and shocked surprise when Mr. C unexpectedly flipped my naked body onto the bed face down. My ass projected upward, anxious for a good spanking. My back curled with anticipation when I felt Mr. C pull the back of my long, black hair.  My head arched backwards and my mouth opened, exhaling a highly aroused moan.  My pants of hot, stimulated breath quickened, my erotogenic moans heightened, and my sex rained with hot moisture when Mr. C’s hand eventually spanked my bare buttocks several times. My ass jutted backwards in his direction, pleading for more kinky strikes of his hand.   After ten years of marriage, he knew how to inflict pain with a perfect rhythm and dominating firmness. I still get wet with arousal thinking about how his several of his fingers plowed into me after striking my ass, twisting, wiggling and thrusting deep with me.  My pink, swollen, wet walls of flesh tightened voraciously around my husband’s fingers.  I thrust my hips downward, plunging Mr. C’s fingers deeper into me.  My body tingled with electricity.  My mind buzzed with a stimulating high.  I could not contain my excitement or multiple orgasms.  My body convulsed and my chest heaved repetitiously.  I felt dizzy and delirious.  My wet, warm lust gushed like a fast running kitchen faucet onto Mr. C’s hands when his virile fingers curled and pressed up onto my eager g-spot.

“Oh My God, Oh My God, OH MY GOD! This feels so goddamn good!

As quick as a fox disappears into the woods when they see humans, my husband withdraws his fingers, increasing my desire for sexual satisfaction.  I sighed with discontent seconds before Mr. C quickly flips me onto my back and spread my legs far apart with his strong thighs.  I sucked in a mouthful of air.  I sounded like a boiling tea pot, exhaling hot hisses of lust when Mr. C firmly grabbed my wrists with his, forcing them above my head.  I surrender easily to his will.  I always surrendered to his will. I am a submissive slut.  My stomach flutters with anticipation when Mr. C’s mouth presses hard upon mine until it opens.  Our tongues twist together with erotic fervor and languished gluttony.  Our breath interlaces. Our souls intermingle.  Our heartbeats galloped with a unified, frenzied rhythm.

I loudly gasped for air once again, when Mr. C’s mouth traveled southward, halting at the Y between my legs.  His adept fingers spread my swollen labia far apart until he could locate the stiff stem inside my glistening, pink flower.  His tongue sucked and licked my clitoris – sometimes slow and soft – sometimes fast and hard. Sometimes my leg twitched from the intensity.  Raw, passionate electricity traveled up and down my spine like a Jacob’s ladder.  My toes curled and uncurled from the pleasure I was receiving.  My hips thrust downward when his tongue plunged into my soaking wet aperture.  I wanted to feel him deep within.  I covered my mouth with one of my hands to silence my screams of bliss, when his fingers replaced his tongue, reaching, thrusting, and exploring deep within me. Bolts of electricity overwhelmed my senses when his fingers pressed and wiggled hard upon my g-spot.  His tongue continued to tease and torture my clitoris as his fingers played a rapacious melody deep within me.  A deluge of my wetness gushes from my over stimulated sex, soaking Mr. C’s hand and face. His tongue continued lapping up my overheated liquid of lust.

“Fuck me please,” I desperately pleaded. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

Soon the headboard of the bed began to crash into the hotel wall.  Thump, thump, thump.  My legs were wrapped tightly around my husband’s body, guiding his thrusts deeper and faster into me.

“Oh God, this feels so fucking good,” I moaned.  The headboard continued to bump against the wall.  Thump! Thump! Thump! My eyes rolled upward with bliss. I felt intoxicated with rushing adrenaline.  My vision blurred.  My fingers gripped tighter upon the bed sheets. Mr. C is a fucking machine.  He does not orgasm easily.  Before Mr. C can ejaculate, I cannot hold back any longer, and I surrender to a divine string of long, hard, multiple orgasms. My body trembles like an earthquake’s aftershock. I cannot withstand the intensity any longer.  Mr. C continues to drive me insane, thrusting harder and harder into me.

“Please …stop.  I can’t take no more.  Please, please.”  But he does not hear my request.  Or, he is ignoring them. His cock plows deeper and faster inside me. This feels fucking fantastic.  However, the intensity is driving me completely mad.  My vaginal walls constrict and loosen around his hard shaft, over and over again.  I concentrate on my breathing to endure the pleasure which rapidly transcended into extreme agony.

“I want to suck your cock,” I begged, hoping this erotic torture will end soon. I did not think that I could withstand this blissful agony much longer.  I could hardly breathe.  I felt over stimulated and my muscles were weak like cooked noodles. My heart beat fast and furious. My senses were overwhelmed, on the verge of short circuiting.  Soon after Mr. C pushed my sexual limits way over the edge of insane ecstasy, his body dismounts me.  His overheated body collapsed with exhaustion upon our hotel bed.  His naked, muscular chest heaved up and down, glistening with beads of salty sweat, his mouth gasping for air, and his cock still hard and erect. I wanted him to feel as much pleasure as I had when I engulf his glossy, wet, erect shaft into my mouth. His musky order floated into my nostrils. The tip of his cock pushed against my tonsils. His salty excitement slipped down my throat.  My tongue glided the tip of his cock back to my wet lips. It slithered against his smooth tip for awhile before I swallowed him into my mouth again.  I shut my eyes, continuing to hypnotically retract and withdraw his cock in and out of my covetous mouth, until Mr. C’s finally ejaculated.  I smiled with satisfaction when the spout on the tip of his cock spurted with hot semen, as if a volcano erupting.

“You still have the magic touch, darling,” I uttered with raspy breath after collapsing upon the bed again. My limbs were still weak as I rested on my back. My body trembled with orgasmic aftershock. Mr. C and I were side by side, attempting to catch our breath. My naked, small and perk bosoms heaved up and down as my body tried to cool down. His penis withered and his muscular chest heaved up and down as well.

“I love you,” Mr. C replied before we drifted off to sleep for an hour.

Later that evening we took a taxi cab to the Venetian Hotel.  Mr. C was dressed in a sharp suit and I was wearing a black cocktail dress with excruciating, shiny, black high heeled pumps.  It was amazing to be seated in the second row, completely mesmerized by the astounding production.  The first time we saw the Phantom of the Opera, we could not afford seats so close to the stage.  I felt fortunate to be able to purchase VIP tickets. Once again, I was in awe and hypnotized by the passionate music and theatrical production.

Afterwards, we got to meet the Phantom back stage.  He was taking off his make-up when we entered his dressing room.  I was ecstatic to meet him and tour the stage.  After the actor playing the Phantom finished removing his make-up, we walked through the corridors back stage with a small group of people who also had purchased VIP tickets.  Many of them had brought cameras and wanted their photo taken with the talented, handsome actor.  It never crossed Mr. C’s and my mind to bring a camera.  The actor appeared disappointed that we did not want our photo taken with him.  He insisted that we take a photo with him with Mr. C’s camera on his new phone.  Mr. C works as an executive protection guard and we have met many big named celebrities.  We are not the type of people who are highly thrilled or in extreme awe of someone in the spotlight of fame.  We did not mean to insult the actor’s ego.

Phantom

However, I was in awe when we were on stage and saw all the trap doors and stage props and were told how they worked.  I have always loved the theater ever since I was a little girl. Having the opportunity to see the stage, trap doors and astounding props thrilled me.  Having VIP tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera was the perfect way to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary.  The memory of our vacation in Las Vegas will be remembered forever in my mind.  I love to live life and experience new places, creating new, marvelous memories.  I would prefer to spend my money on an experience rather than a material item.  For a writer such as myself; experiencing life and new adventures is like gold to me.

I must end this letter, Henry.  Little Miss M is begging me to take her to the park.

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

“Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection. “- Lawrence Durrell

Mia Loves Henry Miller Update

Mia Loves Henry Miller Update.

I would sincerely like to thank my viewers and readers who visited my blog over the past year.  I have never written a blog before.  So I began blindly.  This blog is written in a raw, unedited form.   These letters are now transcending into a book.  Much of the information you have read, will be omitted and the format of my letters will change, in order to put some order into the chaos.   Thank you to all the readers who continued to follow me as I lived my life over the course of the past year.   This project has been a passion of love for me.  I must begin my long day of editing these letters.   I am also currently working on Letter 51.   These past fifty letters will be removed shortly, from my blog site, Mia loves Henry Miller.com.  Soon, a new beginning to a new collection of erotic letters to Henry Miller will begin.

Thank you again to my reader, fans, friends, and the late artist and author, Henry Miller.

Very Sincerely,

Mia

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