Lathaniel, thou knowest how I crave thy touch. Many a night—and morn, and afternoon!—have I lain enfolded in thine arms, as thou tendered thy lips upon my ivory throat and plundered my crevices with thy capable, veiny fingers. But there is a matter we must discuss.
Lathaniel. You have to stop ripping my bodices.
Yes, thou didst detect a switch to the cold, formal “you”! For I am wroth, Lathaniel! Thou hast destroyed ALL OF MY BODICES with thy heedless ham-hands.
Am I flattered by thy haste? Forsooth. I am not made of stone. But, good lord, man. I must wear something. Have some self-restraint.
Surely, thou canst sate thy lusts upon mine person without turning every garment I own into confetti? I look upon my shredded silks and weep, Lathaniel! My bosom heaves with anguish. And what shall support it? Not my bodices!
Misapprehend me not. I fear not thy roughness, Lathaniel. Throw me on the bed. Tumble me in the hayloft and rifle through my skirts as if thou hast misplaced The Grail between the folds. But must thou rip my girdle in twain like a man strained upon the rack? (And what of my rack, Lathaniel? For that was the last of my bodices.)
Canst thou not vent thy masculine humours by simply flinging open my bed curtains? Or shalt I wrap myself from head to toe in paper for you to tear asunder? I shall bear it, Lathaniel—if thou wouldst only spare my bodices.
How can the nimble ministrations of thy digits, Lathaniel, transport me ere and again to howling bliss, yet they cannot handle a simple hook-and-eye closure? Is there some miscommunication betwixt thine hand and eye? At one stroke of satin, wherefore do thy fingertips become donkey hooves?
As I have told thee before, Lathaniel: Speed be not everything.
Passion? It’s not a matter of passion, Lathaniel! I would drink a stream of thee and ne’er be quenched. But perceive how I can grasp thy scepter without scrapping at thy hose like a crazed monkey? It’s not that hard. (Even if thou art.)
Anyway, how dost thou remove thine own clothing, Lathaniel? Dost thou rend thy doublet to ribbons with thy hands like the Verdant and Prodigious Hulk? I venture not. If thou canst unlace thy boots, Lathaniel, thou shouldst be able to unlace a simple bodice. Just pretend I’m a shoe. A panting, buxom shoe.
Have me thrice a day, my hot-blooded swain. Ravish me as thou wilt from dawn till dusk. But ravish not my closet, for, lo—it is bare. Bare of bodices. Thanks to thee, libidinous loon. Wilt thou have me wear nothing but shoes?
’Twas not an offer, Lathaniel.
And we’ve spoken not of th’expense! Hast thou ever purchased a bodice, Lathaniel? Know’st thou the cost of replacing mine garments from Lady Victoria? Her wares are most dear, Lathaniel! And, verily, though thy codpiece is full, I know thy purse is empty.
But, hark—I hear hoofbeats. This can only mean the return of Father and my fifteen large and angry brothers. Our time for sport is short, but I must have thee, Lathaniel. Forget what I said about speed before. Undo my bodice!
No, not that way.
This one’s in the back.
You’re thinking of a stomacher.
No, under the kirtle. Pinch the fabric, and you’ll see the eyelets.
Wrong end, Lathaniel.
Oh, to hell with it — just rip it.