To me, the primary fantasy of submission is total self-obliteration. This is, of course, an unrealistic fantasy, and among other reasons, that's why we have erotica. You can't really do what Story of O does in real life, and dominant people worth consorting with don't actually mind-read; "real" BDSM is full of a lot more silly and boring conversations than fantasy BDSM, which often doesn't even identify itself as such and exists in the abstract, power-laden wishy-washy world of boundaries being pushed, desires being fulfilled, promises being kept or broken.
I don't really pay much attention to the mainstream value system of what makes a good romance novel or sexy book; I think somewhere in the wake of trendy literary fiction going kinky, when people who have never read the actual how-to books or had a really goofy conversation with their partner about what Fetlife tags to use started treating airport novels or fanfiction with the serial numbers scrubbed off as their how-tos, we've lost the plot on the basic fact that erotica is literature, and that really good erotic books are not instruction manuals but have their own literary tradition, one that's weirder and much more fun than real life, deferring to fantasy rather than moral structure.
For example: in the erotic novel of submission, that fantasy of self-obliteration I mentioned is reached, or approached, through escalating scenes–a transformation, a rush to the finish that is impossible in real life but devastatingly hot to imagine. At its best, the entire novel will feel erotic not because it's full of sex, but because (like the state we exist in when we're in love or in lust) it is a maze of anticipations, escalations, and denouements that make the eventual explicit scenes impactful. Everything drips with meaning.
In most novels of submission I've read, this self-obliteration is physical and becomes emotional; what escalates is the physical intensity of the scenes; your character goes more "full lifestyle," so to speak, cedes progressive ground until their body is completely possessed, and then you get flashes of how they might cope with that. You've maybe read those. What's interesting to me about The Absolutes is that Dektar sets this self-obliteration in motion entirely in the internal, emotional, and most interestingly the memory-driven realm. I found this self-obliteration of a very internal character who's sort of floating around in a state of perpetual reverie and self-constitution to be interesting and compelling, and for that reason I liked this book a lot and would consider it a success.
Maybe people disagree. Personally, I think the elements I see people disliking about this book are in service to that main end and you shouldn't give them the wrong emphasis. There are certainly tropes common to literary fiction about neurotic women that pop up here: you have the eating disorder, the art job that isn't an art job, the sea of middle-class Brooklynites who enter and exit with their safe and uninteresting lives, set against the roiling drama of THE woman, the woman who hates herself and wants it all to change. A lot of other novels are full of those elements and then also try to say something about sex, end up making a choice between sexiness and slice-of-life incisiveness/character study. Most people choose the latter. I would argue that The Absolutes doesn't do those tropes better per se; I think that it's not really doing them at all and has different priorities.
Like I said, it's a novel of submission, and those at their best are larger-than-life; of course the desired subject here is an Italian nobleman, of course he has unlimited resources and is supernaturally beautiful, of course it's all vague and almost makes no sense and the only thing that seems real is the relationship. That's how it is! There's an edge here of emotional realism here which I found sort of shocking and sharp, and, finally, yes, relatable, because I have absolutely (ha!) been this character before, at least in the emotional sense. Maybe I really am just the target audience; personally when I'm in a state of desire or crushed-by-a-crush, I've felt every subtle dynamic, every social button you could press in the hopes that you get the emotional attention you crave, and also realized I could lose myself in the process of trying to hand someone else full responsibility of my self-loathing. I don't think that is everyone's cup of tea, but those myopic litfic projects we're all sick of that veer into bleak self loathing exist for a reason: because a lot of people exist this way in relationships today, in some regard. Usually those books bore me, but this one didn't, because turning that into a submissive fantasy where the character's obsessive internality IS her undoing is very interesting. I'll return to The Absolutes whenever I'm thinking over those problems of desire, scale, misery, and memory.