He needs the pain to go on a trip, unplug your brain and reconnect to your body. Hitting the soles of the feet with the cane is both corporal punishment and torture, bastinado or falaka, names vary.
This is what he asked of me. So this is what he will have.
His shins stuck down my thighs, I kick his feet with my bare hands. The sound is punchy, sec, a slap on a drum head.
I then grab a metal ruler. Hot pink, Rule. I smile. “Here, there is Hello Kitty marked on it wholesale”, I say to myself. Fraction of a second my mind takes me somewhere other than this candlelit living room, with the piano notes that streak in the late afternoon heat.
I think of this man that I wanted so much, to his whip so hard, he wrote to me, that he broke the clamp affixed to his victim.
I think of the inner turmoil he was causing me, just read, reread, read his words again and I was transported,
isn't the amount of energy moved in us by a person the best definition of desire or attachment, our Archimedes push and the sorrow that surges, ensuite, with a force proportional to the amount of animated energy.
I scan Hello Kitty, her stupid cat smile, my submissive roped, immobile, closed eyelids. I hit his feet, methodical, without mercy, while he moans.
I tweaked Hello Kitty.
Now my features will no longer be straight.
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© Madame Lule, cannot be used, in whole or in part, without my permission.
