When first you led me away from the party, I was confused. What business could a handsome duke have with I, a lowly stableboy? The clack of your heels down the corridor echoed in time with my anxious heartbeat as I followed you deeper and deeper into the manor. You didn’t even look behind yourself to make sure I was there. I knew to close the door to your chambers. Your strong, gloved hands leafed the tunic from my torso and the jodhpurs from my hips before guiding me to your chesterfield. Oh. Oh my.
The velvet feels good against my skin. I used to be wearing clothes but now I am not, and the dense tufts of velvet against my skin make me feel elegant.
Each second in contact with the velvet blooms into a blissful eternity, the dense weave of the fabric against my bare skin refracting every sense through a prism of glorious decadence. Just as you led me down a long hallway, the velvet itself has taken hold of my very spirit and whisked me to a bold new world of astonishingly sensual pleasures. There is no turning back from this moment. To deny that the velvet feels good against my skin would be to betray my being’s every desire; to imagine a time before the velvet would be insanity.
It also feels good to touch with my fingertips.
I pet the velvet as I would an unfamiliar horse, one whose emotions I cannot read and am afraid may buck or rear. The velvet covers a couch and not a horse, yet I am filled with the same cautious wonder. My breath quickens as I dance my fingers back and forth across it- rough, then soft; rough, then soft. Its roughness is yielding, and feeling its resistance bow even to my apprehensive touch, I gasp. I knew not that I possessed such power until this moment, and I am grateful to the velvet for showing me my own potential.
To understand that such luxury could at once be so generous depraves me. Having drunk of its energy, I realize now that I have thirsted my entire life. Without the velvet I am nothing, and I never want to leave this moment. It feels so good against my skin.
My cheeks blush a deep burgundy; a rising desperation transforming me, making my skin the very color of the cushion on which my bare bottom sits. I once thought that the velvet was becoming me, but I now see that this was the thought of a coward and a child. No. There is no hiding what has happened, and there is no stopping what shall come.
It is I that am becoming the velvet. I am relinquished.
Duke, I beg of you: disrobe as well, and join me on the chesterfield. The velvet feels so good against my skin.