Reds Ribbon M/F, by NYIrishRed
The garden was perfection itself. Small but neat, exploding with color, it was a credit to her meticulous care. It was lovingly tended every day, the stray weed that dared raise its head swiftly removed and banished to the compost heap.
But in the far corner, stood a lone bush ... incongruous in its lack of orderliness and attention. It was overgrown and ragged, completely at odds with the harmony of the small plot which lay behind the white gabled house.
She approached with her basket, meaning to cut a few blooms to add to the dinner table. She took a circuitous path, unconsciously skirting the small anise, and knelt to choose the blossoms she thought would detract the least from the overall symmetry of her border.
The shadow fell as she knelt there, causing her to turn and shade her eyes as the sun behind the towering figure obscured her view. She rose slowly, hesitating only briefly before accepting the silently proffered shears. Their eyes locked for a moment before he turned and strode back into the house.
She hesitated ... not out of cowardice but out of a natural trepidation born of experience ... and finally turned toward the unkempt bush with a sense of resignation. Arguments and pleading were simply lessons in futility, she had learned the hard way, and she knew what was required of her.
She crouched next to the overgrown shrub, parting the branches until she found what she was seeking. The thin red ribbon circled a particular branch, not too thin or too thick, just the right length. Whippy yet unyielding, she knew it was ... perfect. With a determined fatalism, she reached in with the shears and snipped the switch cleanly.
Moments later she stepped uneasily through the back door and into the study. He stood there, his gaze pinning her and drawing her closer through sheer force of will. She approached him with the length of rod, painstakingly stripped of leaves and smoothed out by way of a few passes of the clipper's blade. She handed it over, waiting through his inspection as he examined the switch forany imperfections. He swished it once, then twice, cutting the air and causing her to flinch and catch her breath. Finally, he motioned her to the couch.
She stopped next to the scrolled arm, gently running her fingers over the worn brocaded material. At his command, she reached down and bared herself, then took her place over the settee. With her head buried in the cushions, she strove to present herself as he preferred. A few adjustments later the soft underside of her bottom was uppermost, vulnerable and exposed.
She watched as he approached, knowing he was not yet ready. His hand were warm and gentle as he leisurely modified and shifted, until he deemed her position perfect. He signaled his readiness with a few light taps of the switch upon her bared flesh. A moment's hesitation enabled her to prepare but as always, the pain of the first blow was as keen and sharp as the last.
The whipping commenced, unremitting in its force. There was no anger behind the blows, only the determination of necessity. The strokes fell again and again, causing her to writhe in pain and cry out softly at first, but toward the end she lay quiescent and sobbing, accepting her due and allowing the pliable ferule to take her closer to absolution and forgiveness.
And after.... still hot, sore and striped.... she again crouched in the garden, once more contemplating the odd bush until, firm in her decision, she carefully tied the red ribbon around the next perfect branch.