You liked my innocence, didn’t you, Doctor Jordan?
You liked my blushes, my simple tales of my work day, my fingers working away at the fabric upon my lap. You liked my hair, too, that I noticed that day I had come to our meeting almost late. The guards had been a slight bit too rough upon our journey there, a tendril of hair had come lose out of my cap and fell across my face. I had not a moment to fix it until I was sat before you in that parlour. I had looked to you, not expecting you to notice it much, yet your expression had caught me off guard. Your face was soft, your head tilted just slightly to the side, as you often did when deep in thought. Your keen eyes were upon that lock of hair, following its movement as it fell across my cheek, the end curling around to tickle at my bottom lip and I watched you lick your own lips as I brushed it away, tucking it back into it’s place, away from sight.
At the time I had not thought anything of your behaviour, that is until I brushed my hair that night before bed and remembered seeing your fingers twitch in your lap as I had tucked that hair away, as if you yourself were itching to do as my fingers did.
I began paying a bit more attention to you after that.
I did not realise I had any kind of fond regard for you. That is until the day I told you about Nancy’s death and you asked me about my master, Mister Kinnear, and whether or not he had made advances on me.
I had been shocked, truly. I had not expected such a question from you, and in that moment, I realised my trust in you, and just how strong it had become. I came to see you as the one person that was there to hear my story and believe it, or even just to listen to my words for what they were. Hearing such slander from you, it had shaken me to my core. I had risen from my seat, fully intending to walk out of that room, so angered was I that you would even entertain such an idea of me. But then you placed your hand upon my arm in an attempt to cease my exit.
Your hand was warm, strong and large, as a man’s ought to be. I remember a small part of my mind scoffing at your soft skin, the skin of a man who had not needed to do a day’s hard labour. That is not to say you had not worked a hard day. A person’s mind can be tested in a day just as another’s body can. My stomach had thrilled at your touch, something that had confused me and taken me by surprise at the time. That, not your apologies, was the reason I had not fled that room.
I had taken my seat once more, regarding you and your kind eyes. A person’s eyes tell much about them, that is something I have learned from experience. Your eyes were always soft, you always regarded me with such keen endearance. Then you started moving your hands about, drawing my attention to them. You flexed your fingers in a surrender to me, clenched your fist then rolled your pencil between your fingers, not sure what to do with yourself, until you settled upon clasping them together, leaning toward me and imploring me to continue my story.
I continued my tale, finding it easy to fall back into those memories. You had always been easy to talk to, like an old friend – like Mary. Yet all the while my eyes wandered back down to those hands of yours.
I found some strange pleasure in watching you write. I liked the way you held your pencil, how the bones in your wrist shifted beneath the surface of your skin as you made each of my words to paper. I liked the vein that stood out upon your second knuckle, the small freckle at the base of your thumb.
Some part of me idly wondered what your hands would feel like upon my face. I wondered how you would hold me; would your hands be at my arms? Around my waist? Cupping my head? Such fancies I had never indulged before – never had the desire to. But there, in that little room, having you explore me like I were some unique treasure you found in the depths of the blue sea, I felt exquisite.
On and on my tale went that day; I recalled the horrible incident, told you everything I could remember. By the end of it, you were sitting so close to me. I hadn’t noticed you move your chair. I think that you yourself had not realised your actions until that moment either. But I remember coming out of the story, feeling sad as I described Jamie’s betrayal. Your knees were almost touching mine, I think that a hairline existed between that space and nothing more. I could feel the heat of your body, the warmth of your breath, the smell of your cologne. I had kept my eyes lowered to my hands, clasped together in my lap but did not miss how your own had shifted, twitching and flexing, wanting to touch me, to comfort me. That was a sweet sentiment. I admit, I had hoped you would touch me, even if it were just a small pat upon my arm. But you had settled to lacing those fingers of yours together and pressing them to your lips, leaning towards me, elbows on your knees, deep in thought.
But then, I described to you the moment my sentence had been told to me, how I had fainted in that court room, falling forwards into the spikes of my cage, piercing my skin.
“I could show you the scar.”
I tell you now, I had no desire to rile you up, nor make any advances toward you in that moment. I had simply wanted to share it with you. I had laid my entire life out to you, told you all my secrets, drawn my life and thoughts to you like the quilt I sewed. In that moment, it had felt completely natural for me to show you my scar, you had become a part of my story, it was as much yours as mine and my scar seemed for your eyes to see as much as my own. In my mind, showing you the scar would bring you closer to my story, remind you that it was the truth.
Your hand stopped my movements, pulling my fingers away from the buttons of my bodice, holding my hand and resting it in my lap. You held it there, your thumb caressing my skin every so often. Your hand was a comfort, I felt some strange satisfaction in holding it, like a secret between the two of us.
I had not known then that I had been tempting you. Your face had held no dark desire, no malicious thoughts. Indeed, your regarded me with a look of fondness, like a father doting upon his sweet child.
I realised then, it was my innocence you liked, my purity. Though I was no longer pure, you had asked me about that already, about my time in the penitentiary, what they had done to me, my ‘delicate condition’ as they had called it. I remember the look in your eyes; you had the look of a man that had his blood up, looking for a fight, yet there was an underlying note of sadness there, too.
Had you wished to be the one to claim my innocence?
I knew you wanted me. I could see it in your eyes. I felt your heavy gaze on me at all times in that little room. I would be lying if say I did not enjoy the attention you gave me. Then, as I observed you more and more all the while you observed me. From your hands to your kind eyes, to your earth coloured hair to your long legs, from the hard line of your jaw, to the curve of your lips. I found myself enjoying it all, finding no fault, nothing I disliked in you.
You began filling my thoughts. I would lie in my cot at night, thinking of nothing but you. I imagined you in your room, the darkness kept at bay by a single candle. I imagined your face bathed in it’s warm light, your skin cast soft. I imagine your brow creased in lines as you poured over my words on your pieces of paper.
I wondered if you thought of me beyond those writings. Did you too lie in your bed thinking of me? Did you too go back to that day I tried to show you my scar? Did you allow yourself to imagine my fingers continuing past where you stopped me? Undoing button after button until I could pull open my bodice. I liked to imagine the look in our eyes when I did so. Your eyes would darken, your lips part, your head tilted to the side as I pushed the fabric away from my shoulders, revealing the cream skin of my neck to you. I would pull the neckline of my shimmy down, revealing the scar to you, nested between my breasts. Such a simple thing, that small amount of skin shown to you, yet I would have felt naked under your heavy gaze.
I liked to imagine your hands twitching again, shifting from where you clasped them against your mouth until you gave in, reaching out slowly to me. I’d take your hand in mine, smiling to you and press your fingers to my scar. It had long since healed by then, so it would not have hurt me. Instead, I know I would have trembled. I had never been touched as such before. I thought of your thumb brushing against my skin, just so, feeling my softness.
Would you imagine the same? Perhaps you thought of more. I was still innocent then, not fully knowing what it was I wanted from you. Not as I do now. But you, a man, surely you thought of much more from me?
Indulge me, Doctor Jordan.
You were a kind man, I do not think you would have imagined me just for my body. Perhaps you thought of holding me, standing with me by the sea, your fingers running through my red hair as I know you had longed to do. Perhaps you even wanted to marry me; imagined coming home to me in our house, greeting me with your arms around me and a kiss upon my lips. I imagined that too, from time to time. I imagined what kissing you would be like. Would you be timid and shy like my Jamie? Or would you kiss me full of passion, firm and sound?
Would you lie in your bed and imagine me there with you? Perhaps I snuck out of my cell and found you in the night, like the witch they thought I was, creeping into your bed and brushing my hair across your cheek until you woke. You would smile up at me, lean up to kiss me gently. I would not have objected, pressing my lips back to yours. You would pull me into your lap, run your hand through my hair and kiss me again and again, until I was breathless with it, until all I knew were your firm, warm lips, the soft moan you made in the back of your throat, the taste of your tongue in my mouth.
Your hands would hold me to you, feeling at last your strong body against mine. They would slide down my back, to my hips, to my thighs, to the hem of my night dress and slip beneath. I would shiver, sighing into your mouth as you caressed my skin, riling up my night gown as you went until you pulled it over my head. I would be bare before you then. Your eyes would gleam silvery in the moonlight, pupils dilated as you drank me in. My hands would pull your own night clothes from you until you too were bare. What a magnificent sight you would be.
Your mouth would kiss my neck, hands caressing my back, pulling me to sit astride your lap, until I felt you against my thigh, growing with desire. I would have moaned softly at your ministrations, shivering as you kissed my throat, leaning back as you continued down my chest. Perhaps you would have kissed my scar. Kissing the puckered flesh softly before gathering my breasts into your wonderful hands and kissing them too. My fingers would tangle into your hair, pulling as you sucked and licked at me, moaning wantonly as the warm, wet heat of your mouth captured each of my nipples.
I would shift in your lap until I felt you pressed against me, twitching with your desire. I would roll my hips gently, watching your mouth fall open, your eyes widen as I gave you pleasure too. Perhaps your hands would have fallen to my hips then, grinding back against me, fingers digging into my skin. Would you kiss me again then? Kiss me fiercer, your tongue tasting me, your moans vibrating against my skin.
Then, you would press me down upon the mattress, burying your face between my thighs, tasting me there too. I imagine writhing around in your bed, your hands holding me down as you took your fill of me, your tongue working me incessantly until I was biting at my arm to stop from screaming. Your tongue would dip into my seam, tasting inside me licking at my walls, licking at me until I came undone, shuddering and breathing your name over and over again.
Then you would have risen above me, gripping yourself in hand and entered me slowly. I can imagine your size, stretching me compared to my Jamie. I doubt I would have been your first, though perhaps you would have wanted me to be so. I think I would have wanted you to be the first man for me to bed.
I imagine how you would stretch me, fitting yourself inside me until sheathed, breathing heavily into the crook of my neck. When you moved in and out, I would be in sheer bliss, the size, the smell, the feel, the sound of you, all edging me closer and closer to the edge. I like to think of how you would look like that; your cheeks flushed, your hair falling into your eyes, mouth open as you panted, moans coming out low and unabashed. Your arms would hold me to you, your cock would move in and out of me until I was moaning with it, hips jerking and twitching a the feelings you inspire in me. Often, in my dreams, you breathe my name in to my mouth and I would come undone then, shuddering in pleasure as ecstasy courses though my veins, clinging to you for dear life.
I like to imagine how it would feel to have you release inside me, fill me up with your hot seamen, mayhaps I would even bear your child, a part of you fused with me forever. I wonder if you have these thoughts too. Such fancies only to be breathed in the dark, in the dead of night.
Such things would you imagine, Doctor Jordan? As I have?