Free Invitation to Ruin by Ann Vremont

not answer my cry for help—even if
only by return letter? I plead with you to do so. My soul is
imperiled and you are my only hope of salvation.
    -L-

    April 15, 1787
    André, beloved,
    I searched the drop point I suggested and
still I find no word from you. And yet I know you receive my
missives. I have gone to great lengths and expense to know that it
is true.
    Do you read my words or burn the envelopes
unopened? You read them, I know you must! For your hand did tremble
as you brought the wafer to my mouth this morning and when I was so
bold as to look you in the eye, you cast your gaze to the side. So
much more delicious this Sunday’s communion as I imagined the salty
taste of your rod on my tongue and prayed that the same image ran
through your mind.
    I would fill your mind with more images since
you do not care to make your own pilgrimage to me. Imagine, dear
André, my body as it is now, while I sit here writing this letter.
I have loosened the bodice to my dressing gown, allowing my hand to
cup and stroke my breasts whenever Beatrice leaves the room. I
count the minutes until she retires at last to her bed to sob into
her pillow until sleep claims her.
    Then, alone in my wakefulness, I lift the hem
of my dressing gown. Do you picture this, beloved? Do you see the
fabric sliding up over my bare calves, pooling between my thighs as
one hand slips between my legs and the other fills these pages with
promises of my love for you—promises I would give immediate
physical form if you would consent and name a time and place!
    ...
    Ah, I return to ink and paper now—Beatrice
having finally retired for the evening. How she moans in her sleep!
I worry her noise might call someone to our room and they should
find me thus, my hand roaming my thighs, dipping into the wet
recesses of my sex.
    Would it shock you, André, if I named these
parts to you, the parts that weigh so heavily in my mind? Pussy,
cunt, clit, cock! How those words thrill my mouth, my tongue and
lips silently shaping them as I write. Clit and cunt thrill me the
most, the T’s delightfully thick and swollen, much as my own sex is
as I think of fucking you.
    But I do not say this to shock you—only to
assure you that I would not suffer ruin at your hands—you are, my
love, the only hope I have of my soul’s reformation.
    Let me pray before you, on my knees, my hands
clasped to your hips, your hands, divine in their touch, knotted in
my hair. Please, beloved, do not continue denying me all hope of
salvation.
    -L-

    May 8, 1787
    André,
    A letter from you at last. You will pray for
my soul, you say. How kind of you. Have you done so already? God
must not be listening for I still burn for you, still grow damp at
the thought that I will see you at services tomorrow. Look for me
then—see how I squirm along the bench, needing you so badly.
    Do not mistake my intensity for religious
fervor—it is a divine lust that possesses me. To sate it, until you
take pity on me, I purchased a poor substitute for you. A dildo…I
call it my Little André, although its circumference is not at all
little. Little André is flat at the bottom, with a base that pushes
at my thighs as I walk or sit with it embedded in my wet cunt (yes,
love, even in the confessional, I carry your namesake at all times
now). From the base, three rounded balls penetrate me. They are
metal, melded together, and each has the circumference of a fat
egg. My pussy folds around the balls and their little valleys,
contractions rippling through me with the slightest movement of my
body.
    So picture that, dearest, when you look for
me on the bench as you preach eternal love and forgiveness. Watch
my body sway with devotion—not to the God you pay lip service to,
but to your manhood and the sorry replica of it that my pussy
clenches and flutters at.
    -L-

    May 9, 1787
    Sweet Jesus! How you trembled at evening
services. Have I undone your concentration? Tell me I have!
    Heed my words, André. You can save me