Better than IMAX

The room dims. The blue light of the television washes over them. As the opening credits roll, you sink your influence into Cherie. You don't just watch with her; you become the lens through which she sees the world. You bridge the gap between the screen and her subconscious, pulling her into the narrative.

The living room walls seem to melt away. The sound of the popcorn and Chad’s occasional grunt fade. Cherie isn't sitting on a sofa in the suburbs anymore; she is the operative on screen, fleeing through the rain-slicked streets of Prague.

The male lead—a rugged, broad-shouldered man who bears a striking resemblance to the Lord of the Manor from her book (and by extension, the physique of Mike and Mark) pulls her into a safe-house bedroom. The "Action" pauses. The tension, which has been building for ninety minutes of screen time, finally breaks.

The kiss is tender at first, an exploratory testing of the waters before becoming ****, tasting of salt and adrenaline. In the movie, they fade to black. In Cherie’s mind, the scene continues with a vivid, carnal clarity.

She finds herself on her knees on the cold stone floor, the contrast of the chilled air and the man’s radiating heat driving her wild. She reaches for his belt, her fingers trembling as she feels his cock, strainging against the fabric of his jeans. She frees him, her tongue tracing the velvet-smooth shaft before she takes him deep into her throat.

The vision shifts. She is on the bed now, her legs spread apart as he returns the favor, his tongue relentless. Then, the "Lord" pulls her onto his lap. She rides him with a frantic, rhythmic intensity, her back arched, her eyes closed as she surrenders to the sensations.

The movie cuts to her in-story boyfriend—a man who looks remarkably like a younger, more boring Chad—texting her repeatedly: Where are you? I brought home some take-out. Come home.

Cherie’s character doesn't even look at the phone vibrating on the floor. She throws her head back, a silent scream of ecstasy tearing through her as they climax together, the man's heat flooding her, anchoring her to the moment.

The movie ends. The hero sacrifices himself in a blaze of glory to save her. The final shot is Cherie’s character returning to her boring boyfriend, a secret, dark fire burning in her eyes that he will never understand.

The credits roll. The house lights flicker back on.

Cherie is breathless, her blouse damp with sweat, her pupils still blown wide. She looks at Chad, then at Mark. Mark gives her a slow, knowing wink as he stands up.

"Hell of a movie," Mark says, his voice thick. "That ending... she really had to go back to that guy, huh? Poor girl."

Chad yawns, stretching his arms. "It was okay. A bit unrealistic in the middle, but the stunts were good. I'll see Mark out, Cherie. You look tired."

"I'm not tired, Chad," Cherie says, her voice low and dangerous. As Mark leaves and Chad turns back from the door, she doesn't wait for him to suggest sleep. She grabs him by the collar of his work shirt, her eyes blazing with the borrowed fire of the movie—and your influence. "We're going upstairs. Right now."