Joscelin van Rensselaer (joscelin) wrote in lightning_war, @ 2009-02-15 19:00:00 |
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Current mood: | horny |
Letter from Joscelin van Rensselaer to Michaela Blackwell Pryce, dated 17 September 1942...
WARNING: sexual content in letter.
Letter is very carefully warded and sealed; unreadable to anyone other than the recipient. Slipped inside a normally sealed and addressed envelope for benefit of the mundane post:
Darling Michaela,
Please forgive me for the antiseptic tone of my earlier letter; I wasn’t sure what state of mind it would find you in, given the situation, and you must know that I would rather drink quicksilver than offend you, particularly at such a time. I am very sorry for your loss, as you know; your grandfather will be sorely missed as well by all of us who had the fortune to know him when he was still himself.
Things are in chaos here, and I should care more than I do. We are preparing for the worst, and hoping for the best, but that would describe the whole of Britannia right now, I suppose. Everyone tells us to watch for the signs of trouble in our students, for signs that things are abnormal, but in a time when nothing is normal, it’s deuced hard to manage. Everyone is a little mad in times like these, don’t you think? I never know what to say to the children, especially knowing that some of them only look like children. People say that I am hard on some of them—especially the mundane-born boys—but I just don’t know what to say to someone who can be alive in times like these and find the energy in himself to care about dropping newts’ eyes into Almira Dee’s hair or worse, her tea, even if the Dees are every bit as full of themselves as they were when we were in school, as indeed they have been since the very beginning of time when their great and glorious lineage sprang armed from the mind of God—or so they would have you believe it.
Right now I am actually fondest of the refugee students, particularly Miss Popescu and Mr Frankel, who are some of the most resourceful people I have ever met, and Dashwood, of course. The Misses Walsingham, Scower and Hornby seem to find it annoying, and it is oddly gratifying to watch them scramble for attention. They are also brilliant students, and they are very pretty girls, and I think they may even grow up to be interesting if they can only manage to grow up at all. But they are not as brilliant as Popescu and Frankel, nor even Diotima Starn. Of course you will remember Professor Starn; she is his daughter, but not by the lost and unlamentable Julia Peverell—her mother was a gipsy woman. And she is sharp and stark and more than a little mean. But amusing.
I miss you. Oh, darling, I miss you. I finally had to let the servitors change the sheets, but the smell of clean sheets no longer comforts me; even when you can’t be in my bed, I like to know that you have been there. Your perfume gives you away, my dear…at first it seems crisp and clean and proper, a cover for the faintly marine, clean-animal scent of a woman, but then the white flowers assert themselves and open up, the way you open and swell to my touch. You are so cool and professional and proper on the outside, but you have the heart of a libertine, don’t you?
I love that in you; the fact that you can be just as wholly yourself at a lectern, brilliant and shining, as you are when you lie in my bed, wordless, spread open and wet and slick as a mango. I can hardly sleep at night for wanting you, you know—I know myself, as anyone does, but it’s not familiarity my body wants, it’s the deft but not yet completely familiar pressure of your hands and mouth that I crave. I dream of your perfect face twisted in orgasm as your whole body clenches around me; I want to feel that again. I wanted you when I was a child, but I didn’t know you then. I thought you were pristine and unattainable. But now I am so very glad you are not, because I love to fuck you, and I love it that I can, that the world you live in hasn’t bleached you as white as it tries to do its professional women, because I love the red flush that hides under your pale skin, the heat inside you no-one else can see. And when next we’re together, I want to make it last all night.
There is more that I could say but I must close this; I’m being called to an emergency meeting. Hopefully it is nothing too very awful and I will be seeing you soon.
Yours—in every way,
Joscelin