The Scandalous Letters of V and J by Felicia Davin

Author:Felicia Davin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Etymon Press

PRIVATE DIARY OF V BEAUCHÊNE, FEBRUARY 9, 1824

J let me watch her work this afternoon, which would have been enough of a gift, but then we came home and she said, “Let me make you a better drawing.”

And then she took my clothes off and tied me to her bed.

I suppose the obscene novels led me to believe it would be rough, hard, merciless, and I thought that was what I wanted. Instead it was almost unbearably tender, the way she posed my arms above my head and looped a velvet ribbon around the headboard and my wrists. She loomed over me, her shaggy brown hair curtaining her face, bottom lip bitten in concentration. I couldn’t see the ribbon, but I could feel the long tails of it brushing the insides of my elbows. I know from her drawing that she tied a decorative bow instead of a practical knot. Nobody in the novels I’ve read ever does that. They don’t tie people up for the way it looks.

Then again, the characters getting tied up always struggle against it. They protest. Even if we’d been playacting that, I’m not sure I could have found the words. I wanted to be there. My breath quickened every time she tugged the ribbon a little tighter. I hope it was as obvious to her as it felt to me.

She moved to the foot of the bed. I lifted my ankle and it was less of an offering and more of a plea. She selected another ribbon, knotted one end around a bedpost and then cradled my ankle in one capable hand. The ribbon looped several times, crisscrossing the slender length of my ankle, and then J pulled it snug against my skin. I sucked in a breath; her small smile spoke volumes. She moved to the other bedpost and I spread my legs to offer her my other ankle.

It sounds backwards to say this might have been the single most erotic moment of my life, given that a while later J fucked me until I whimpered, but the anticipation of those few, deft touches of her fingers interspersed with the whisper of the velvet nearly killed me. To be handled like that, with competence and an almost impossible patience, I didn’t even know how much I wanted it.

And then she sat down in her chair and began to draw. The actual drawing is quick and spare, revealing that J’s patience and concentration are not so glacial and infinite as she implies. But it felt like I lay there for hours, trying desperately not to squirm. I thought she was capturing every wrinkle in the sheets and every last quivering tendon in my arms. It was marvelous. I will shiver at the sound of charcoal on paper for the rest of my life. I can’t write any more about it; I am too discomposed.

She did say something I think I ought to write down, though. It was before we started. She sat in that

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