One day, in the distant future, a young woman named Phaedra will accelerate.
She will move faster than any of her friends and family, far faster than her father, who will have been a professor of agrarian culture, even more rapidly than her sisterhood of speed worship.
She will go far beyond artificial limits, touching the edges of acceptance that surpass the corners of time and the constraints of lingering doubts.
And you, you there in the comfortable leather recliner, you will follow her. And you will wish you had escaped from the rigid behavioral codes of the other agrarians when you had the chance.
Then, and only then, you will come to grips with that base, but incredibly beautiful, sensation of longing and need and richness that you find in the body of the one you crave so deeply, so passionately, so desperately. You might think Phaedra will be the one. But you will find a different future from the one you envisioned when you began the pursuit, accelerating faster and faster and faster.
Her name, that wonderful name, that spectacularly short, supple, lovely carressable name, is …
Wait. If she wants you, she will say her name. It is not for me to write, nor you to read. You must hear her speak it. Anything less is pure fantasy.
