I wrote this once for a flash fiction submissions call. It was rejected, and I may have posted it here before, but since I don’t remember, here it is.
Sir tightens the straps around my wrists and tugs. “Is that okay?”
Unable to speak through the gag in my mouth, I nod.
He tightens the straps at my ankles and repeats his question. I repeat my nod.
Once each week for months now, I’ve visited my Sir. We started slowly, setting boundaries and safe words. Each week, he pushed me farther. Each week, I allowed it.
And now we’re here. Me, tied to the St. Andrew’s Cross, unable to move or speak until Sir permits it. Him, holding the flogger. My favorite one.
He strikes, and my skin responds as it would to his touch. Again, and my mind goes blank.
Here in this place with Sir, I don’t need to think. Sir takes care of everything. He takes care of me.
Here in this place, bound and gagged, for a brief time I can be free.