A Life Of Passion

Rosa: “I want to live with you”

Armando: “You perfectly know what you have to do.. but you like to go round the houses, and make some chaos”

R: “You always loved my chaos! Don’t you like it anymore?”

Vittorio De Sica and Faye Dunaway on the set of “Amanti” (A Place for Lovers),

With cheeks still glowing from a goodnight spanking, I snuggled into bed. Then he slid in next to me with a book. I curled one arm around my elephant and rested my head in his nook. The story was brand new in his voice—voices, actually. I giggled each time he debuted a new one. My smile was so big and bright and real. I met each page with wide-eyed excitement, wondering what he would come up with next.

The first time he suggested reading to me, I think I rolled my eyes. “Nah, I’m not little like that. I don’t need that.” I didn’t know what kind of little I was, or if I was one at all. But I knew I wasn’t that. Because that felt cheesy. It felt artificial. Like bad role play. But then, I once felt that way about kneeling for a man. I once felt that way about wearing a collar or crawling or calling a man Sir. I once felt that way about asking permission for things I could damn well decide for myself. And in each instance, the experience showed me a piece of myself I’d never seen before—a piece I had missed dearly without ever knowing it had been missing.