Le Question

Juli 30, 1788  
   
Cher D.  
   
   
“What is it that you do not wish me  
to know?”  
   
Today you asked me this question. While I was naked on my knees. Wrist clasp behind my back. Eyes cast downward at your scuffed riding boots. My mind raced with so many things.  A blend of dread and thrill tingled me from head to toe.  
   
“How I am afraid…” I hesitated.  
   
“Afraid of…”    
   
“Afraid of myself.” This answer surprised me. As tears burst from shameful eyes, damping my sore, reddened knees. It was at this moment I knew there was no going back. My clothes had been dispensed with like a minor inconvenience. The heavy grey door was latched and locked. Keeping out the outside world, keeping in this darker realm I would soon discover.  
   
You just sat in silence, with its own brand of violence. Violating the moment, violating me. I felt silly, ashamed and vulnerable. How the Marquise de Thibodeaux, a woman of wealth, power… and intellect, could be lowered to this. Yet I had done this…  
   
I wanted to rise, to flee, to escape. But could not, would not. For I knew this was my self-chosen fate. This quest that lay asleep in my breast, that now beat rampant in my heart. As if I was waiting my whole life to at last… accept it.  
   
Finally, you crouched down, beside me. Raised my head level by my trembling chin. Looking into my eyes you neither smiled nor frowned. Gently, you placed it upon my head. A leather-bound volume of “The Misfortunes of Virtue” by M. de Sade. Letting it balance for a moment before you returned to your stool.    
   
“Focus your gaze on the wall,” you insisted in a tone between command and invitation. I looked beyond you, beyond the cold stone wall, even beyond the good life I had chosen to forsake. For I was now here.  
   
“We will start every lesson this way. I will repeat the question. You will answer me truthfully. Do you understand?” I started to shake my head, forgetting the situation, the book, my place. “You may answer me, when I ask you a question.”  
   
“Oui, Monseigner.” My reply came out softer than a whisper. As if meant only for me to hear. Thoughts shifted to the sting of my knees, the ache in my shoulders, the tome precariously balanced.  
   
Then you quoted Blake:    
   
“Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand  
And Eternity in an hour”  
   
as I felt your riding crop’s first kiss…  
   
TVS  
   
s.