A Short Tale

Fully fantasy; written in the third person

She slumps against the whipping cross braces. Her skin is slick with sweat. She is quiet. Lost in her own place. Sir has finally laid down the flogger.

She breathes, knowing that her physical self is under someone else’s care. Sir has a vested interest in keeping her safe and undamaged. Slight injury is one thing; a little bruising, a little soreness is expected. And appreciated.

She smiles, then shivers as Sir starts undoing the restraints. He throws a blanket over her, and sits with her on the sofa. He hands her a glass of water, murmuring, “Drink,” because she forgets to stay hydrated.


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