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I know that it is wrong, perverse, my reaction to his innocence, but, God forgive me, I cannot help myself. There are days when my demons are kept in check, when all I wish is to preserve that untouched sweetness, to prevent any hint of blackness dimming the light of him. Sometimes I can even imagine that such a life might satisfy all my desires. I dream at those times of gentle kisses, of soft touches, of his gasp of shock and pleasure at my delicate fingers on his manhood, of his eyes wide with joy and awe as I breach him with infinite care. If I were sure I would always use him so, I think I could summon courage enough to confront him. He is so easy to lead, at times; I can imagine a dozen plans for beginning such an affair, several even in which he would believe the scheme was his own. It would be simple, if I wished it so.
But on days like this, when I fear that these many months of celibacy will drive me mad, I know that the risk is too great. It does something to me, that untouched naïveté of his, something dark and unnamable and monstrous. I would never wish to hurt him--never that!--but what I do desire is nearly as abhorrent. I want, in a word, to debauch him-- to twist his loveliness into something else. I want him wild and wanton and willing, and most of all I want him mine, all mine. He looks at me, sometimes, with eyes that nearly worship, trusting absolutely. To what wicked ends might I not turn that trust! To those pink lips, flushed and swollen, curved into the smile of a courtesan; to those long lashes, fluttering before shameless sky-blue eyes; to that porcelain skin, the only covering for four long limbs writhing and spreading in invitation; to those musician's fingers, pulling me nimbly and eagerly out of my own clothes; to that melodious voice, offering to serve me, begging me to use him, pleading obscenely for me to take him fast and hard and now...
I know I could do it. I could make of him that brazen sybarite, an unblushing voluptuary behind his angel's face. He could be the world's virgin and my whore, no one but I aware of the change, and the thought is so arousing it makes my eyes roll back in my head.
So long as I can fight against myself, I will not give in to these depraved desires, and, so long as I entertain them, I cannot trust myself with my Bertram's body. He is something good and pure. He deserves a love, a lover, just as spotless. And once I had him, once his lips were mine to kiss, his flesh mine to caress, I know that I would not long keep control. No, it is best this way.
But ah, what things I dream of in the night!