Maybe in my past life I was a gentleman in the 18th-century. I don’t know. But I take a look at a woman dressed in that old 18th century outfit and something about me wakes up. Something within me stirs.
I close my eyes and I see a woman’s face. I see her curly hair done up in some sort of extravagant manner and I see her face red and flushed. I see her breasts threatening to spill out in that tight outfit and I feel like I belong.
I was recently read Jane Eyre and though it is a great and wondrous gothic romance, It is intensely erotic. The interplay between Jane and Mr. Rochester builds and builds, which left me breathless then and it leaves me breathless just thinking about.
Maybe my mind is just twisted, maybe it is too far gone. But I think of the tension between them and my mind races. I think about Jane, in her sweet defiance in her journey to find herself and I want to tear her dress off and see that pale ass and whip it into submission till it is red and perhaps even blistering. Till I can hear her sob, with a hint of arousal. It exhilarates me.
I adore those times, you know. Lords and ladies. The mannerisms, the fashion. The relationships behind closed doors. I’ve never dug the ‘costume dramas’ like Downtown Abbey but the scenario of the long delicious build up between Jane and Mr. Rochester rouses me in ways I can’t really explain. It sings to me across time.
I can close my eyes and picture me dragging the poor lady off into a lavish bedroom and seeing what waits for me beneath her clothes. How has she kept her treasure? How will she fight back when I lower my mouth to those untouched thighs.
Perhaps I was a menace back in my past life, maybe I wasn’t entirely a gentle man – but today’s musing: maybe I came from there in another life. Maybe I look dashing all dressed up and such. Maybe that’s why I am drawn there now.