Venus in Furs

Madame,

For you, three years have passed by since that night in Florence where you disabused me of my notion of love. Yet why do you so oft appear in my dreams, fur wrapped with a whip and that cruel smile that I so adore.

This portrait of you, my Venus in furs, has stirred the smoldering embers in my heart that you extinguished that day in Florence. Once again, I find myself at your mercy, craving to be in your presence, if not as a husband, then a slave.

But that is neither here nor there, for what has happened cannot be undone. As with all things in life, I too have gone through a change, one in which I no longer feel the desire to be the anvil. Be content that you have cured me on that cruel day that I abhor yet cannot forget. I shall recount my life since we parted so you may feel some gratification in the man you forged.

After leaving the villa, my back scarred by the hand of Prince Corsini, your lover, my mind lost to deliriousness, I walked the streets of Florence, not having a destination in mind. The train having long since departed, my legs of their own accord took me to a sporting district where women stood outside their shacks in sultry poses, bawdily lifting their knickers and fluttering their eyelashes to entice men.

My eyes latched on to a lady who bared such a similar bearing to you that I could not control the rage and hatred I felt. Looking back on it now, there was nary a resemblance, but the mind is a strange thing, creating fabrications to protect its integrity. My mind and body working in conjunction took me to a place of healing without my knowing.

I am ashamed to admit this, even now as I think back to that night when I visited her dinky home. Me, Severin, the man who worshipped women with a fervor raised my hand to strike at you. The whore, for that was what she was, took it with grace, not uttering a whimper at the pain she must have felt. The look that was on her face was not one of fear, but of resignation, as if she had been through this before and wanted to get it over with. Even before I struck her, my mind had regained itself and though I tried, I could not stop the blow from landing. Tears sprung to my eyes as I fell to my knees and desperately clutched at her hands as I once did yours, begging for her forgiveness.

She stood there in shock, for never before had a man gotten down on his knees for her. I laid bare my soul, crying like a babe for his mother's teats as she tenderly caressed my hair. Perchance, do you remember when you said to me, "I shall take a lover, otherwise things will only be half-accomplished, and in the end you will yet reproach me with not having treated you cruelly enough, my dear beautiful slave." And then you treated me tenderly like a child, kissing and caressing me, as if I were the only thing you loved. That was the last time I felt like Severin the man. Now, held by the whore, I once again felt like a man, for in my mind it was you who held me in her arms.

Soon after leaving Florence with tears still wet upon my cheeks, a strange sense of melancholy took hold of me as I perused over my life and the decisions that led up to your betrayal. I found myself lacking as a man and vowed to become one that would have been worthy of you. In my heart and mind, I yet believed that the prince would get bored and move on, and you would run back into my waiting arms. Reality disabused me of the notion as the days passed and there was no sign of you. A hundred letters lie crumpled in the floor of my room.

My father having grown old and ill, needed me, so I returned to help look after the estate. Two years later, my father passed away, and so too did my memories of you, dulled by the visage of time. I often wondered if it were but a dream for I had nothing of you to remind me that you truly existed.

The radical cure that was your whip left in me a hatred of women. I myself now keep several such implements to use on the maids who fail at their duties. There is strange sort of pleasure at applying the whip after having been at the end of it so many times. Do not feel so disheartened of the man you have created. I am not so cruel as to lose myself in the whip. While tears and screams for forgiveness come out of their mouths, they do not mean so, or why else would their nether regions excrete that slimy substance.

I find women are more willing after being broken in, and once the initiation is completed, they lose any sense of modesty and cease their protests. There are times when I believe they fail on purpose, simply to feel the caress of my whip, that sting which is so painful, yet pleasurable. Perhaps that is what you desired as well. The Greek was your master and though he was brutal, you loved him so much that you forsook me. There is no resentment left in me after all these years, but an acceptance. After all, whoever desires to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.

I am saddened to hear that the Greek has died and left your loving embrace. I say this not out of pity, but of true regret. There was a day when the prince paid a visit to the villa seeking your company. Opening the door and taking his coat, I watched him walk to your room, closing it behind me as if he was already the man of this house. The negress maids had gone out on your business and we were alone in the villa, the three of us. The sounds of your love making travelled not far, but my ear was pressed upon the door, so I heard it all. Your screams of pleasure, the aggressive moans as he forcefully invaded you and took what he wanted. Alas, the keyhole was too small for me to witness this act of copulation. You fulfilled your promise to take a lover and to treat me cruelly, so I have nothing to complain about. If only my heart understood it too.

This portrait that you have sent me reminds me of the days that I worshipped the ground your feet touched. You may find it of some amusement that I no longer have an inclination for anything furry. No, ever since that day I now prefer my women to wear stockings as the maids can attest. There is something in the rolling down of them to uncover the smooth flesh in hiding. The low-class maids only had one pair of stocking on their person, which I quickly remedied. Now I find myself in a constant state of lust as they walk around my estate. Having inherited my fortune leaves me much time to spend frolicking with the maids and I daresay I have ridden them in every room of my manor. Though the taste of their flesh pales in comparison to one of noble birth. The servants are already used to being whipped, so it is an entirely different sensation to take the whip to a noble lady.

Just last week, I received a visit from a friend and his wife who seemed to have lost their fortune to debts beyond their control. As he has done so often before, he had himself excused at the last moment to give me some privacy with his wife. He knew of my nature and presented his wife to me without my asking, as if she were a transaction. The poor thing was suffering after we did the deed, wondering how she would face her husband. I remained inside her after having spent, uncunting, as I consoled her until her hysteria left and we coupled another two times before her husband came knocking. Needless to say, he received some money and a promise that I would assist if they came under any more financial troubles.

Alas, I have yet to find my muse who gives rise to passion within me as your presence once inspired. While I have had many encounters and am much learned in the art of Venus, I no longer believe in the sanctity of marriage and have no inclination of remaining with a single woman for the rest of my life.

And what of you Wanda, have you truly been living like an Aspasia after your lover's death?

The last we spoke; you were still a wealthy widow with a Villa in Florence. What pray tell has caused you such misfortune that you find yourself as a woman of the streets. I do hope to hear back from you, perhaps I can be of assistance in these troubling times.

Severin