I have become completely depraved.
If my father ever learned of my actions, he would disown me completely.
I have violated every rule of my upbringing.
I struggle with these facts.
But not for the reason I should.
I struggle because I don’t feel regret and pain.
I do not feel the disapproval of God.
In prayer, I ask God to condemn me—and I am met only by silence.
In my bones, I have the strange sensation that the Lord I have worshipped all my life is indifferent to my transgressions.
I cannot understand it.
And I cannot stop thinking of Annabelle.
In the woods she took me in her mouth so gently, introducing me to pleasure that before her was only a distant dream.
I thought that I would die having never spent in a woman’s mouth. In my darkest, most depraved thoughts I imagined such things, always vaguely. I had not thought such a thing possible in reality. At least notfor me.
Butshemade it a reality. I was completely in her power. At her mercy. And utterly grateful to be.
I grow hard in my trousers, swelling at the memory of her soft, insistent mouth. I am tempted to slake myself, but it is a gentle temptation. In truth, I would rather wait. For her. It is enough to be here, hard and aching at the memory.
My eyes blur.
I open the bottom drawer of my desk and reach for my green book. These days, it sitsatopthe Acton.
I flip to the page where one of the protagonist’s paramours sucks him off with her mouth. When I read it before, I did not quite understand why his pleasure was so immense—but now I do. I do, I do, I do.
I close the book and toss it back into the drawer.
As usual, it isn’t helping.
My feelings for Annabelle are becoming unruly. I am aware that, in truth, they were never particularly reasonable, as is evident from my conduct. But in this moment, I fear the emotion that stirs inside me for her.
I do not like to think, for instance, of her eventual return to London. The idea of Trescott without her devastates me. But there is nothing to be done about it. She determines everything between us.
So I wait. I have no other choice.
But I suspect that she will call me to her on Sunday.
And she does.
I do not know why she doesn’t command me to her more frequently. Or why she favors Sundays.
But once again it is Sunday evening, and I find myself at the Abbey. The servants are once again scarce. I am greeted by the same junior footman.
When I am directed to the drawing room, I discover Annabelle seated as she was last week.
She is so beautiful that it hurts to look at her.
She is wearing a dress of silk, a light red, and which reminds me distinctly of her nipples when I have teased them into a state of want.
