I’ve been sick for a while, and it’s been too long since I’ve written. Here’s a fragment of my latest project. I call it, “The Paddle’s Kiss.”

…This violently beautiful woman spends her days praying over our images, begging some distant deity for salvation. I’m not sure if it’s my salvation, or hers, but I listen and watch over her shoulder.

There, I see the photo that is the subject of her current prayers. It’s me. I don’t remember having this photo taken, yet it’s clearly my image. My eyes are wide open, as though surprised, but I’m looking to the left of the camera.

I am forbidden to speak, so I can’t ask her about the photo. Presently, she opens her eyes, stands, and then glides the door of her room. She doesn’t open the door. Instead, she snaps shut a heavy lock, turns and smiles. All of this is done silently, and I purse my lips in thought: She has prayed for me. I am hers. I will do as she demands.

She returns and takes my hand and leads me to her desk. The desktop is cleared of any clutter, and the wood is polished. It is a dark mirror reflecting our faces. I put out a tentative hand, and my fingers graze the surface. The wood is smooth and feels as luxurious as it looks. I imagine myself naked and lying across the desk, gripping the edge.

She smiles at me again, and with one hand, produces silky pillow with the gold fringe from one of the desks drawers. With the other hand, she draws out the paddle that was used to warm my backside the previous evening. Without thinking, I put one had to my buttocks. Her resulting laugh is like the tinkling of silver bells. I blush.

She motions to me to remove my robe. I do so, and then lean across the desk. It is cool against my breasts. My fingers grip the far edge, and I raise my head a scant few inches. She holds the paddle but a breath from my face and strain to kiss it. Then she moves like liquid, and touches my ass lightly with the paddle. She mumbles a few indiscernible words — a prayer, I think – and delivers five sharp swats with with the paddle…

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