I have been seduced. By who, you can well guess.
I remain, in technical fact, a member of our special club. But it feels merely a technicality.
I fear I have lost myself completely. And yet the pleasure. The pleasure makes me heedless of risk.
I am at her mercy.
Tell me what I should do—or condemn me, if you choose.
Alfred
I should be furious with her.
She called me so that I would miss preaching to my congregation without being able to give a warning.
All so that I could serviceherinstead—and I didn’t even remove my clothes in her presence.
Then she roughly dismissed me, barely uttering agoodbye or giving an explanation for why she was choosing that moment to leave.
But I struggle to be angry with her.
It isn’t in my nature, it turns out, to be angry at a woman who has given me such pleasure.
And such release.
She is the only person—outside of my other fellow sufferers in the Virgin Gentlemen’s Club—who has ever cared about my deprivation. And the only one who has ever expressed without reservation that I should have license to pleasure.
Furthermore, given my state in the days leading up to Sunday, I now feel much better. As if my spend was a kind of exorcism. Even when I awake hard in the days afterwards, I am able to bear her orders with much greater ease. Because I know that she will call me to her again.
We may confidently assert that no man is entitled to the character of being chaste who by any unnatural means causes expulsion of semen.
The words still come to my mind.
And they still shame me.
I have done far worse than self-abuse.
At night, I pray to God for forgiveness and receive no response.
On one hand, I am sickened by what I have let myself become.
I am nothing more than a whore, a plaything, for a woman who cares nought for God.
And worst of all, I enjoy it.
Indeed, on the other hand, I revel in it.
My mind returns again and again to our interlude in the dining room, to the feeling of her core on my lips andtongue. I imagine wringing other climaxes from her and grow hard at the thought.
And deep down, I am glad that she controls my desire and my actions. It is a kind of relief. I no longer have to fight off my own temptations because it is useless. Soon enough, she will use me as she sees fit. And I will leave satiated.
I think of her constantly. All the time. I imagine idly, any moment my mind is unoccupied by parish business, what she will ask of me next. I have little knowledge of the bedchamber beyond my green book, so I have scant material to furnish such thoughts. But truthfully, I don’t need more than the sight of Annabelle de Lacey on that chair.
Still, I find my green book and open it.
I find the pages where the protagonist is ridden by a woman in a country tavern. And I imagine Annabelle de Lacey doing the same to me.
I imagine her riding me on that very chair where I tasted her.
