Hello Kitty Bastinado

He needs pain to go on a journey, to unplug his brain and reconnect with his body. Hitting the soles of his feet with a cane is both corporal punishment and torture, bastinado or falakanames vary.
That's what he asked for. So that's what he'll get.

His shins locked to my thighs, I strike his feet with my bare hands. The sound is hard, dry, like a slap on a drumhead.
Then I grab a metal ruler. Bright pink, the ruler. I smile. "Here you go. Hello Kitty It's written all over it," I say to myself. A split second when my mind takes me somewhere other than this candlelit living room, with the notes of the piano echoing in the late afternoon heat.
I think of that man I wanted so much, of his whip so hard, he wrote me, that he broke the pliers on his victim.
I think of the inner effervescence he provoked in me, just reading, rereading, rereading his words and I was transported,
isn't the amount of energy moved within us by a person the best definition of desire or attachment, our Archimedean thrust and the grief that surges, then, with a force proportional to the amount of animated energy.

I scrutinize Hello Kitty, his stupid cat smile, my submissive roped up, motionless, eyelids closed. I kick his feet, methodical, merciless, while he moans.
I twisted Hello Kitty.
Now my features won't be straight.

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Madame Lule, may not be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.