How is my courageous warrior today? Your face fair as ever, but your mood foul, no doubt-–word has reached Versailles that your men were driven back some ways. I have no doubt you will lead them on to victory; charge ahead, my stallion, but see that you return to me intact, for I have many battle plans of my own, to claim and pillage you.
I have lately received from Paris a lovely thing in the form of a new shaving set in a gleaming turtleshell casket filigreed all over in silver. The looking glass is particularly fine; I find myself enchanted by the sturdy face reflected at me, some handsome, fair-haired devil I know you would go ravening for–-he’s your type. I long to run the fine teeth of the comb through your hair, putting you back to rights after I’ve had you. Précieux. The way you purr–-the memory of it stirs me even now, reclined sideways in your great bed trying not to spill the contents of the ink pot all over the linens.
Ah, but the razors, mignonette! The swordsmith has outdone himself in the honing of the blade edges, narrow as a cat’s whisker, and keener than any hunting knife I have known. Thus my face is now as smooth as the skin of your pretty inner wrist, whose every vein and freckle I long to trace with the tip of my finger until you shiver. And if I was tempted to test the edge on the pad of that very digit, and found the cut to be elegant and slim-–like you, amour, how I wish you were stretched out here beside me, and not only so you could steady the ink–-it cannot be held against me that my thoughts turned to the art I could make of you with those pretty, steely blades. To leave a trail of running rubies in their path, to make a sort of jewelry of it, and to know that later the slender scars would linger white and pink, a maker’s mark upon you, a brand to show where you belong, should you stray.
It’s a pretty dream of you, sharp-gasping as I etch filigree of my own, in the skin of your chest over your heart, and in the pretty palm of your precious hand. To engrave my name (our name) in pretty script down the length of your thigh. To stipple a ring around your slim ankle, how it would run in narrow rivulets down the complicated architecture of your perfect foot, tracing the ropes and threads beneath the surface, the bump of bone. How I ache to slide the blade between each of your magnificent toes…
I would trace a love poem in six stanzas into the surface of your back as I had you, my warrior, my servant, ma mademoiselle, O, Monsieur! the way your shoulders shift and your hair spills away from the nape of your neck as I take you, and take you, the heat of your embrace! I am ruined. I am driven mad with wanting you, why did I ever let him take you from me? I would lick every drop of your life from every bit of your skin. I would soak my handkerchief with it, dip it into my wine. Only give me your life, mon epoux, as I have so carelessly handed you mine.