A novella by Christina Bergling

The Lash


From The Waning:

“I felt Your footsteps come up behind me. I tightened into my fetal ball. You slowly reached down and guided the hem of my shirt up to expose my back. My heart and my breathing stopped. I was quivering uncontrollably.

Then that first introduction of pain. The strap. I felt the thick, supple leather paint a sting across my back, tearing the pain deep into my flesh. The sensation blanked out the world; my mind only knew the shape of the lash, the pattern in which my nerves ignited.

At such exquisite pain, I could not resist glancing up. I could not control my curiosity, my blatant need to visualize my attacker and attack. You kept as much distance between us as You could. You stood above me, cold and stoic, and let the strap lick Your commands over my flesh.

I saw Your shape, tall and clean, in black. Black clothing, black hair. Perhaps I even saw black eyes. I could only manage to steal a glimpse of Your figure
before the strikes bore my head down again.

Do as you’re told.
Shut your mouth.
Respect my control.
Forget that old life and old self.
You are mine.

Each command split my flesh; each instruction bit and drew blood like a vampire. It would take weeks before I understood the language of the lash.”

Artwork by the talented Phillip Beachler, the Graphics Smith.


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