Early evening. Marisa arrived at the apartment and, as expected, found the door unlocked. When she entered, she heard the duet by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong in Dream a Little Dream of Me—a little dream of star-feathered birds and love whispers in the breeze. The diffused light from the table and floor lamps accentuated the music's nostalgic feel, spreading out in soft circles like a thin, golden veil that could fray at the slightest sign of neglect.

The ample window framed the forest of buildings and the sky blurred by city lights. Marisa glanced at the scenery and her attention was soon drawn to a white shopping bag on the coffee table, jutting out among the bronze sculpture, a computer magazine and a pile of books. The paper bag carried the familiar logo of a red apple with one bite mark and two words: Lost Paradise.

With burning curiosity, Marisa sat down on the edge of the sofa and picked up the bag. She took out from it a pair of black high-heeled sandals and a wide belt weaved with metal plates, shiny like brand-new coins. The last item she retrieved was a package wrapped in pink paper and tied with a red ribbon. Marisa undid the wrap with impatient hands: it was a square box holding a bed of tiger-pattern silk paper. In it lay a black strip ornate with strass, linked to a chain that featured a leather loop end. A collar on a leash for her to wear tonight.

Marisa studied it for a long moment without touching it. She undressed, put the sandals on and fit the belt around her hips. Only then she removed the collar from the box, feeling the softness of the leather and the hard sparkle of the strass. It smelled of something new. Marisa admired it with her eyes and fingertips, thought about its meaning and what Marco was going to do to her. At that thought she blushed, and the flushing descended from her face to her chest to her thighs. She fastened the collar around her neck in a gesture that betrayed fatality. Holding the leash with reverence, Marisa headed for the bedroom.

She found it illuminated by the faltering flames of a dozen candles, which were multiplied in the mirror next to the bed, saturating the air with a fragrance of sandalwood. Above the mahogany headboard, there was an abstract painting in fiery hues. On the nightstand, an almost empty glass of port. On the chair beside it, Marco—dressed in black, his legs crossed and a delicate flogger resting on his knees.

His relaxed posture dominated the ambiance. He contemplated her in silence, his mouth touched by an almost imperceptible smile. His gaze caressed her nudity with satisfaction. It concentrated on the collar, then on the snowy breasts and the glimmering chain. It searched her face. Eyes as smooth and stern as time.

Marisa approached him slowly. As she advanced she became more pliant. Ready to surrender herself completely. That night. The high heels made tic-tac on the floor, the chain links whispered faintly at each step, the belt tinkled to the soft swing of the hips. Her body created music as it moved toward him.

The unspoken words, his and hers, cut through the air.

I want to know by heart the rhythm of your heartbeat. I want to drink of you until I quench this thirst that won't leave me in peace, devour your body with my hunger, turn it inside out and outside in, let your blood and your soul invade me, make up for the lost time of all days and hours and minutes I lived without you, rip all the armors that shelter your treasures, penetrate in light and darkness, up to the last recess... I want to know by heart the rhythm of your heartbeat.

Marisa paused before Marco and looked deeply into his eyes. She quivered at her own reflection in his irises, quivered as she crossed the border to the unknown, quivered for what she was about to say.

Her legs faltered, the belt murmured.

She handed him the chain.

"I am all yours."

And dropped her gaze.

And the game encircled them with its whims, an invisible whirl carrying the perfume of the candles, shadows on snippets of skin, voices and melody, the flog strips, soft hands, a drop of port winding down to the navel. The hours whirled and whirled. Later everything dispersed like fog in the wind, the candle put out released a black thread of smoke, the music died away and the voices quieted. Shhh...

Marisa lifted her gaze.

In the following date silence reigned, and a secret smile on her lips. She tossed her coat on the couch and, sitting on the arm rest of a chair, began her preparations. Unbraiding her hair, she fixed it with her fingers and picked up a makeup kit from the purse. Marisa applied heavy colors on her eyes and, on her lips, red lipstick (Fantasy #5, waterproof). Lastly, she put on high-heeled sandals in a gracious motion, straightened up and smoothed her black mini dress—a scandal of scantiness with a generous neckline.

This time, when entering the bedroom, she found Marco stretched on the bed. With his back against the pillow, he was wetting his lips in a glass of port and lighting up a cigarette. Barefoot, in jeans and a white T-shirt, he had his face shadowed by the dim bedside lamp. His dark eyes gleamed as they took in her body.

The open window beckoned the breeze and the echoes of the night. Cars, voices, distant laughter, for a moment it was all that could be heard in the bedroom. Marco put out the cigarette, and the last streak of smoke spiraled until dissolving in the diaphanous white of the curtain. Marisa sat on the edge of the bed, provocatively crossing her legs. Then tapped on the mattress.

"C'mon here," she said in a flutelike voice.

And when Marco got closer, Marisa stroked his hair and ran her fingers across the narrow sideburns. She flexed one hand on his chest, scratched the T-shirt cotton with the red nails and slid down until resting her hand on his thigh. But not for too long. With her index and middle fingers, she walked to the belt, trailing the pants waistband.

He arched one eyebrow and smiled.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh..." she pressed her index finger to his lips.

Marisa kindled him with half-caresses all over his body. She moved around his hips to concentrate on the inner thighs, her fingers skimming ever so lightly there. Without touching him where he wanted the most, she changed course and proceeded to explore what was underneath the T-shirt.

Marco pulled Marisa closer and tugged her onto his lap, nestling her against his chest. His strong hands enveloped her waist. One remained in place, while the other glided possessively across her bare thigh.

"That's better."

Marisa held her palm to his chest.

"If you want some more, you'll have to pay."

Marco stilled for an instant. Another wicked smile.

"I need to know beforehand if the service is good."

"I guarantee it's first rate..."

She gave him a sample. He gave her a bunch of bills. They played all night long.

___________________________________________________________

Speaking of fantasies, what would be the craziest of them all in your opinion? Real or made up...

Maybe you guys can bring me inspiration for the sequel to RED!

And here's where I hypnotize you again for votes and comments. I hate to do that.

Thanks for your support. You rock! :-)